


Morte et Tributa (Death and Taxes)

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Torture, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 41
Words: 55,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25665994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Aurelia Callaina is a tax collector assigned to Helgen. One day a dragon from prophecy attacks and destroys the town. She could live with that. Akatosh will find a Dragonborn to deal with the World-Eater.He does. It's her.And she thought Skyrim's tax system was a joke.Rewrite of 'Certain as Death and Taxes' and 'The Winter War'.
Relationships: Balgruuf the Greater/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Comments: 493
Kudos: 131





	1. Oblivion Breaks Loose

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, torture, genocide, war crimes, religious persecution, child abuse/neglect/abandonment, misogyny and drug/alcohol abuse. Rewrite of ‘Certain as Death and Taxes’ and ‘The Winter War’. The ship may potentially change as the canon has expanded considerably.

Every culture in Tamriel had its jokes about tax collectors and as a member of the Imperial Provincial Revenue Service, Aurelia Callaina had heard most of them. Cyrodiil had the regional variations of the Colovians claiming her kind were greedy and stupid and the Nibenese believing they were hideously overtaxed. The Bretons of High Rock accused the average tax officer of being a jumped-up peasant and the Redguards who remained in the Empire jested that of every three coins paid in tax, two went into the collector’s pocket. Orcs liked to make suggestions on where the Imperial tax forms should be filed, Bosmer pointed out that even the Meat Mandate forbade the eating of parasites, Altmer held themselves above paying tax and Khajiit observed that tax collectors were thieves with licences. Dunmer considered it a national pastime to find legal reasons to hire Morag Tong assassins to avoid taxes and Argonians tried to pay in all sorts of noxious things they claimed were traditional tithes. And the Nords, sweet Kynareth, the Nords…

She was beginning to suspect that the entire taxation system of Skyrim was an elaborate prank played on the Empire by the Nords.

As the last month of summer, Last Seed was the harvest month in Skyrim and therefore time for paying taxes. On paper, the average citizen paid thirty percent of their yearly income or harvest in coin, service or kind to the hetman, who passed on thirty percent to the Thane, who passed on thirty percent to the Jarl, who passed on thirty percent to the High King, who gave the Empire thirty percent of their province’s income. Somewhat higher than what people in other provinces paid but, in theory, a workable system. The problem was that everyone had their own idea of how much thirty percent was and how it should be paid…

Imperial law set an unskilled worker’s wage at one septim a day, setting the lowest threshold at which tax could be paid at seventy-two septims a year in Skyrim. Deductions could be made for service in the Legion auxiliary corps, which generally included Hold guards, or donations to approved temples of the Divines. Thanes and Jarls often demanded their share in goods or service instead of coin from the hetfolk and commoners, which led to… difficulties… when the local Imperial authorities needed manpower for repairing roads and fortifications – because said commoners had already paid their tax and resented being conscripted. Skyrim’s meagre mercantile class complained about excess tariffs on their goods because, so far as they were concerned, they’d paid their share to the Jarl. The Jarls claimed that providing guards to the Legion’s auxiliary corps paid their thirty percent and pressured the High King to agree. Given that the rulers of Skyrim were generally chosen for their pliancy involving Imperial policy and not their backbone since the Oblivion Crisis, this only made the situation worse and led to Legionnaires seizing goods or properties for auction so that taxes could be paid in cold hard septims, thereby forcing Nords to join the Legions to gain much-needed deductions for their families.

The result was that Imperial infrastructure in Skyrim was crumbling even as the country was being impoverished.

She rubbed her aching temples as the figures on the parchment blurred. With such a clusterfuck in place, no wonder half of Skyrim had defected to the Stormcloaks. Callaina didn’t know if Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm had any ideas beyond ‘kick the Empire and the elves out so we can worship Talos again’ but she could understand the dissatisfaction that drove the rank and file.

Even if the average Kreathling liked to mock her as ‘Korli Coin-Counter’ and repeat all the tired old Colovian jokes with some Nordic additions about her looks and marriageability thrown in for flavour.

“I’m beginning to understand why the last assessor took religious vows,” she muttered, reaching for the pot of tea she brewed from purple mountain flowers soaked in honey every morning. Helgen was an important but dreary post in the Provincial Revenue Service; the worst positions to have were in Morthal and Winterhold accordingly, the two Holds being the most desperately poor in Skyrim. Dawnstar and Falkreath, the other two minor Holds, at least had the port and lumber exports to stimulate tax revenue. This was as far as she’d likely rise in the province, thanks to the legacy of her family. She was a little surprised they’d let her come to her mother’s Hold.

The tea woke her up a little and she reached for the quill and ink once more. The Imperial bureaucracy was after her to squeeze blood from a stone, the Legion wanted to know when their rations and manpower were coming, and the citizens wanted their taxes to be light – or at least fair.

At this rate, the only thing likely to happen would be for her sanity to run screaming into the night.

A shadow fell across the page; it was Iulia Narentia, the Tribune of the Helgen garrison. Benevolently corrupt as only a Niben-woman on her last tour of duty could be, she feathered her nest at a reasonable level and didn’t seem inclined to abuse the last of the Aurelii. “They’re back,” she said with a sigh. “Tullius will ask questions if you don’t attend the execution.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Callaina said bitterly. “I know my place in the scheme of things.”

“I know,” Iulia said apologetically. “But they didn’t just get Ulfric. They got your brother Bjarni.”

“A brother I don’t know!” Callaina protested. “Don’t you think it’s a little sadistic to make me watch his execution?”

“You make Siddgeir nervous,” Iulia explained grimly. “Look, you come, and I’ll get you reassigned to Solitude. Tullius isn’t a sadist but he has to reassure the loyalist Jarls the Stormcloaks are under control. That means making the last of the Aurelii watch the fate of the traitors on her mother’s side of the family.”

There was no choice. Head pounding despite the tea, Callaina rose to her feet and followed Iulia out.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his King and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace,” grated Tullius as he stared up into the face of the gagged, much taller Nord before him.

“It’s High King, Cyrod. Get it right if you’re going to lecture us,” bellowed a massive sable-haired Nord in good chainmail in the other line.

“Bjarni Storm-Born. Like parents, like son, a traitor bred and birthed by traitors.” Tullius sighed with what seemed like genuine regret. “We could have made something of you like your sister if we’d gotten our hands on you young enough.”

“A puppet with my spine surgically removed?” Bjarni’s laughter was scornful. “Let me kiss the headsman’s bride already and spare me your Cyrod bullshit.”

Callaina’s fists clenched involuntarily. Is that how her mother remembered her? A spineless puppet! She’d made the best of a bad lot of cards dealt to her by her arsehole family.

“Let’s get this over with,” Tullius ordered Iulia as the prisoners were lined up.

Something cried out, sending an atavistic shiver down Callaina’s spine. Whatever made that sound wanted her dead. She knew it.

But Tullius and everyone else, excepting a quiet question from Hadvar, ignored it. A thief was shot in the back as he bolted for the gate; a Stormcloak strode to the headsman with head held high and insults on his lips. The third was Bjarni, whose last taunt about the Legion took their names, their pedigrees, their sexual habits and their personal hygiene to new depths unsounded by even Sanguine. He’d certainly put himself down in the records for most obscenely profane last words in the Fourth Era.

Callaina glanced down as the headsman raised his axe high. But it never fell, for Oblivion in the form of a black dragon landed on the watchtower and broke loose over Helgen.


	2. Road to Riverwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of childhood trauma, child abuse, child neglect, child abandonment, imprisonment, torture and war crimes.

_That was a dragon. Sweet Kynareth, that was a fucking DRAGON! It’s the end of the world and we’re all going to die…_

Callaina rested against the warm grey stone of a standing stone carved with the constellation of the Thief, allowing the serenity of the surrounding area to ease her rapidly beating heart. Fleeing Helgen – Legionary and Stormcloak, who even in the face of destruction still tried to kill each other – watching black wings flap as the hauntingly familiar dragon left with a cry of triumph. It was one of the most traumatic days of her life, up there with the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple, and she knew that it would get a lot worse.

_I need to report…_ But to who? Helgen was completely shattered, going to Falkreath-town would be worth her life if Siddgeir feared her that much, Markarth was too far across hostile terrain and Solitude might as well be on the moon. Whiterun, the trading hub of Skyrim, was possible but Jarl Balgruuf was holding to a strict stance of neutrality. What could he do about the dragons without the resources of the Empire?

Her heart began to race as she realised what she’d thought. Dragons. As in multiple. As in the end of the world. That black dragon…

…What little remained of the contents of her stomach was purged out as she rolled over to the side and retched. That dragon, the one with the baleful red gaze that wanted her dead so personally, was Alduin World-Eater. She’d come face to face with the literal embodiment of world’s end.

She remembered being a child, neglected and ignored, who huddled by the fire at the feet of Esbern as he spun tales of the world ending in fire and devastation when the gods grew weary of it. Arius, mad with paranoia, declaring that the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn was at hand because he knew Callaina would live during it and that they needed to have the Septims on the Ruby Throne for the world’s sake…

Some ragged shred of something that might be called courage helped her rise to her feet, clinging to the stone for support. She was the last of Cloud Ruler Temple barring her uncle, who was a province away in Cyrodiil’s south. There was likely no one else who understood the meaning of Alduin’s return. She was the last of the Blades. A broken one with a dulled edge.

A hoarse chuckle found its way through a throat tight with fear. Callaina Broken-Blade. Probably as close to a real Nord name as she’d ever get.

“I know the jokes about tax collectors being thieves are popular, but don’t you think it’s a bit much to literally embrace them?”

Callaina shrieked and spun around, fire coming to her right hand and then dying out when she realised the heavy-shouldered man in Legion segmented armour was Quaestor Hadvar Harnbjornsson, the personal aide to Legate Primus Rikke Snow-Stone and a familiar face from Bruma and Helgen. Plain-faced and soft-voiced, he was an implacable servant of the Legion, willing to do whatever it took to achieve the objective even if he personally disagreed with the morality behind it. That made him more frightening than most.

The amusement didn’t leave his voice. “I’ll escort you to Riverwood. My uncle Alvor’s the blacksmith there.”

Given little choice, she nodded. “Someone… report…”

“If the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius will deal with it.” Hadvar squared his shoulders. “Come on. I want to get to Riverwood by dark. There are wolves in the forests of Falkreath.”

Four wolves introduced themselves about halfway to the small lumber village by the banks of the river, Hadvar shooting two of them with his Legion recurve bow, gutting a third with his gladius, and Callaina just throwing Flames at the fourth until it was a hunk of charred meat. “Don’t you have any combat skills whatsoever?” the Quaestor asked in disbelief as he retrieved the precious steel-tipped arrows and drew his belt-knife to skin them.

“I went from Cloud Ruler Temple to the Imperial Workhouse to the Provincial Revenue Service, got sent to the worst posts the Empire could find, and was reminded constantly about how my parents were traitors and it was only by grace of the Elder Council’s mercy that I was allowed to breathe at all,” Callaina retorted bitterly, feeling a flash of sullen anger. “Where in Oblivion do you reckon I could’ve learned some combat skills beyond ‘throw fire at it’ during all of that?”

“A true Nord would have found a way. We’re the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives, and when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies.” Hadvar sounded like he was quoting something as he peeled skin from flesh. “You’re a coward, Callaina. A true Nord-“

“My mother was a true Nord and she left me to the Empire’s mercy without a backwards glance so she could have true Nord babies with a petty warlord who’s managed to give Tullius a black eye and a bloody nose despite having half the manpower and resources of the Bruma Fourth,” Callaina interrupted harshly. “I spent my childhood being terrified of my mother, a true Nord. Then I got to watch a lot of true Nords get executed for worshipping Talos by the Thalmor. I had to watch every public execution in Bruma. And today… _and fucking today_ … I was made to watch my brother, one I never even knew and who called me a spineless puppet, go to the headsman’s block.”

She laughed harshly. “If I’m a coward, Quaestor, it’s because the Empire has made me one because they fear the legacy of the Aurelii that much. Better a live fox than a dead bear. Even a life as pathetic as mine is better than the alternative.”

“Bjarni survived,” Hadvar said with a grimace. “I think that damn dragon is on the Stormcloaks’ side. It showed up just as everyone’s favourite foul-mouthed cretin was about to get a shave from the headsman.”

“That dragon, if my remembrance of the stories I heard at Cloud Ruler Temple is correct, was Alduin World-Eater,” Callaina told him grimly. “He’s on _no one’s_ side.”

“Uh huh.” Hadvar returned to skinning the wolves. “We’ll see. Don’t go far. There’s reports of bandits in the hills around here.”

_Sounds like the Legion isn’t doing its job,_ she thought sourly, folding her arms and watching Hadvar work. For a man who wanted to reach Riverwood by dark, he was taking his time.

But eventually, as the sun sank red-gold into the west, he bundled up the bloody hides, thrust two into her arms, and marched them both to Riverwood, where his uncle’s smithy was literally on the single cobblestone street that ran through it.

“Uncle Alvor! Hello!” he said to a heavy-shouldered man in plain leathers working at the forge.

“Hadvar? What are you doing here? Are you on leave from...” Alvor paused, taking in Hadvar’s soot-stained and bloodied armour. “Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Shh. Uncle, please. Keep your voice down. I'm fine. But we should go inside to talk.” Hadvar looked around warily.

“What's going on? And who's this?” Alvor peered at Callaina suspiciously.

“That’s Callaina. She’s a tax collector.” Hadvar turned to her. “The pub’s just up the road. It rents pallets for a few septims a night. Sell those two hides and you’ll have enough.”

“Your generosity is beyond my words to articulate,” Callaina observed with shaky sarcasm.

“Of all the people to survive Helgen, it had to be you. Gods have mercy on us all.” Hadvar turned back to his uncle, speaking in a low voice.

Callaina took the hint and crossed the street to the general store. She might as well do what he suggested. Even the end of the world had to wait on her needing to sleep.


	3. Unexpected Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, child abuse, war crimes and religious conflict.

“You could have tanned these at least,” complained the Niben-man who ran the general store. “Four septims each.”

“You’ll sell them for twenty to Alvor,” observed the blowsy Niben-woman with too much makeup seated at the cluttered table by the fire.

“Six each,” Callaina countered. “That’s still three times the profit when you sell to Alvor.”

“Nine for both of them and I’ll throw in a new dress,” was his next offer. “That one isn’t even fit for rags.”

“Done,” she agreed. He was right. Her dress was stained by blood and soot and smoke. “If I have anything left from buying a pallet at the inn, I’ll come back and purchase a comb and some soap.”

“Delphine provides soap – and I have an old comb you can keep,” the blowsy woman said. “You look like you went through Oblivion today.”

“I did. A dragon attacked Helgen,” Callaina admitted. “Damn thing tore through the Bruma Fourth like a dagger through taffeta.”

“Old Hilde swore she’d seen it,” the woman breathed in shock. “Sven called her crazy.”

“Sven should talk,” groused the man as he took the wolf pelts gingerly, putting them on an empty shelf. “If he isn’t drunk, he’s boasting about he’s the greatest bard in Whiterun even if he’s never been to the College.”

“He’s a good poet,” the woman said defensively.

“He’s a drunken lout who only keeps his job at the lumber mill because Embry’s more useless than he,” he retorted. “Faendal can hunt, at least.”

“I’ll go back to the pub and get that pallet,” Callaina said quickly. “I might have a few coins left over to spend here.”

The pub, known as the Sleeping Giant, was just past the second road that led to a couple cottages nestled right up against the stony bulwark of the Jeralls. Callaina paused on the street, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as a headache pounded between her temples. She was exhausted from a lack of sleep last night and having to run for her life today from dragons. The stories never mentioned the end of the world inducing headaches.

“Troll’s blood, woman, you look like you’ve been through a war!” said a tenor that had the drawling accent that seemed native to southern Skyrim. “Were you at Helgen?”

“Yes,” Callaina admitted, opening her eyes to see a cluster of three men, one of them Bjarni and another in Stormcloak blue, in front of her. “Do you know how much it costs to stay at the inn? I got nine septims to my name.”

“A sign from the gods,” drawled the sun-blond man in Stormcloak blue, his voice deeper than the first speaker, who was obviously the pale blond man in rough homespun covered in sawdust.

“Delphine will give you a pallet on the floor for five,” said the lumberjack sympathetically. “If Orgnar charges you more than two septims for a bowl of vegetable stew and bread, tell me, and Gerdur will remind him of the appropriate price. She’s the hetwoman of Riverwood.”

“Hetwoman… That’s like a mayor, right?” Callaina asked, rubbing her temples.

“Aye.” The lumberjack smiled apologetically. “I’d offer you the hospitality of our house but with these two, the floor space’s taken.”

“That’s mostly Bjarni’s fault,” said the blond Stormcloak with a laugh.

Callaina took the opportunity to study her half-brother more openly despite the pounding in her head. Bjarni was huge, easily on the far side of six feet, with the dark hair and blue-green eyes that came from their mutual mother. “Hadvar’s at the smithy,” she said cautiously. “If he finds out you’re here…”

“Pity he’s too good a fighter to ambush just outside Riverwood in the morning,” rumbled Bjarni in a bass. “I’d want a crossbow bolt in him before I even thought about closing in. Preferably two.”

“I heard nothing,” she said quickly. “Thanks for the help.”

She hurried past them before Bjarni put two and two together. Her life was already difficult enough without Hadvar seeing her associate with traitors. Even if one of them was her own brother.

…

“That’s Callaina,” Ralof confirmed once they were safely ensconced in Gerdur’s neat cottage, bottles of mead in hand and toes warming by the fire. “I saw her several times in Bruma.”

“She’s like a dog who’s been kicked so many times it cringes even when there’s no need to,” Bjarni said after a swallow of mead. Gerdur’s homebrew was pretty decent, even by an Old Holder nobleman’s standards. After today, even the piss Maven called mead would have been welcome. “Why didn’t the Empire just put her out of her misery?”

“Because her foremother is Aurelia Northstar, the Madgoddess,” Ralof said soberly. “She threatened Mede with madness and worse if he had Callaina killed.”

The hearthman leaned back in his seat with a weary sigh. “I joined Ulfric because of what the Legion did to my mother Ragnhild, but I stayed with him because I saw the future of an Imperial victory in Bruma. Nords cringing like slaves under the whip, selling out their kinsfolk for another day of survival or a scrap of favour from the Thalmor, forgetting what it was like to be a child of Kyne and Shor. I see the beginnings in the Imperial Holds. I fear that for my family, for Frodnar. I would die to prevent it.”

Hod took a hefty mouthful of mead. Everyone in Riverwood remembered the crucifixion of Ragnhild, the previous hetwoman and mother to Ralof and Gerdur. Hadvar’s own father had wielded the hammer and nails.

“That dragon…” Bjarni said slowly after fortifying himself with another couple gulps of mead. “I think I know who it was.”

“I’ve heard the stories too, Bjarni,” Ralof said grimly. “I don’t want to think about them. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Bjarni agreed. “Tonight, I’m getting very drunk and praying my father escaped Helgen. Because of those stories are true… he might be the only one who will know what to do.”

…

The Sleeping Giant was grandiosely named for a village inn but it was clean and cheap. Delphine, the innkeeper, was a fox-faced blonde Breton who carried herself like a tightly coiled spring and the barkeeper was a surly sour-faced Nord named Orgnar. “So you’re that visitor that’s been pokin’ around,” the former remarked in an almost parodic performance of the nosy village innkeeper, her slightly nasal soprano sparking memory in Callaina’s pounding head.

“You’re about as authentic a village innkeeper as I am a Blade,” she said wearily to the woman instrumental in the deterioration of her parents’ marriage. There was no one else in the pub’s common room, thank Kynareth, and her head hurt too much for subtlety. “I’m guessing not too many Penitus Oculatus or blackcoats come through here for it to matter.”

“There’s a lot of wolves around here. Accidents happen,” Delphine said with a sigh of her own. “Orgnar can be trusted, but I’d appreciate you being discreet. I haven’t survived all these years by being careless.”

“I survived because the Emperor’s too damned scared of Great-Great-Grandma to have me quietly executed,” Callaina replied. “I just got sent to every pestilential, bandit-riddled, rebellious shithole the Empire could think of.”

A flash of sympathy crossed Delphine’s sharp features. “Orgnar,” she told the barkeep. “Put some venison on the spit and break out the best ale.”

“Sure thing,” he said easily.

“Follow me,” she said over her shoulder as she entered a small bedroom with better furniture than the rest of the inn. That alone would have alerted any half-observant agent that Delphine wasn’t what she seemed, unless she’d come up with a moderately plausible tale. Or, more likely, she ambushed, murdered and buried anyone she suspected of being a spy. Her father’s ex-mistress had always been a ruthless woman.

Once the door had been shut, Delphine crossed the room and opened up her wardrobe, revealing a false panel that slid open to reveal stairs leading down to the cellar. Callaina followed, rubbing her head, wondering what she could tell Delphine to assure her she wasn’t a threat. Hopefully Helgen and the fact that she was probably the last holder of Akaviri dragonlore in this part of Tamriel.

“Help yourself to a healing potion. I saw the dragon flying northwest a few hours ago. I’m guessing you survived wherever it was.” Delphine brushed grey-threaded blonde strands from her eyes. “We’re probably the last two who know what the return of the dragons means.”

“It was Alduin,” Callaina said as she popped the cork from the red ceramic vial Delphine handed her. “Big, black, hated everything on a personal level? Who else could it be?”

“The Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn.” Delphine’s blue-grey gaze went to the dai-katana hung from a makeshift rack on the wall. It still bore the red-and-blue cording of the Second Blade, who was responsible for maintaining security in the Blades and overseeing the spy-craft aspects of their mission. Once she’d worked hand-in-hand with Irkand, the Third Blade… and the personal executioner of the Grandmaster.

Callaina downed the vial, grimacing at the cold-gruel taste of wheat and blue mountain flower, and put it on the table. “Yeah. I don’t remember everything. But I think I remember enough.”

“That’s right, you listened to Esbern. I suppose given the other choices were to hear Arius rant about the Ruby Throne or Sigdrifa froth at the mouth about Talos…” Delphine’s grimace was sympathetic. “I wish I’d been able to talk Irkand around to dealing with his father. One good dose of poison and the Blades would have survived Cloud Ruler.”

“You didn’t help,” Callaina said without thinking.

“No. I slept with Irkand and when he didn’t prove amenable, I seduced your father,” she admitted candidly. “Two months after being raised to Second Blade, I realised Arius was too insane to lead the Blades, but everyone was too scared of his Illusion magic and too afraid of invoking the Madgoddess’ wrath by slaying a Septim. Well, I’m Breton, so I can resist most spells. I’d swayed Rustem, Esbern and Acilius Bolar to my side for a coup but…”

“Dad got sent to Hammerfell and Irkand was captured by the Thalmor,” Callaina finished.

“And Arius moved too fast. His paranoia allowed him to anticipate potential threats. I’m pretty sure that’s why he had your grandmother Setareh killed, because she knew he was mad as a First Seed Hare.” Delphine rubbed her temples. “I fucked up. Rustem fucked up. Sigdrifa fucked up. We all fucked up. And you were the one left holding the bag, an eight-year-old girl who flinched whenever someone raised their voice. It was wrong and I’m sorry.”

The shock of hearing _someone_ admit they did wrong, the trauma of the day and the exhaustion from nearly forty hours without sleep made Callaina’s knees crumple. Darkness veiled Delphine’s pale face like moonset and then eclipsed everything, even her own awareness.


	4. Bleak Falls Barrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, child abuse, war crimes and religious conflict. For any newbies who come across this story, ‘Tales of the Aurelii’ is the ‘canon’, and everything else (including this one) is an AU.

“If you’re looking for work, grab an axe and chop some firewood. Hod will pay you a fair price.”

It had been a long time since she chopped firewood. The Imperial Workhouse had drummed the adage ‘idle hands are the Daedra’s playthings’ into its inmates with hard labour and the occasional beating. Joining the Imperial Provincial Revenue Service at eighteen as a junior clerk sent to the worst posts the Elder Council could find had reduced the physical labour but anything less than dawn to dusk hunched over tax records with hastily snatched meals saw her pay docked for ‘inefficiency’ and ‘sloth’. Callaina truly believed that the Elder Council was trying to work her to death since she didn’t have the decency to die of an illness or random rebellion or a bandit raid. The last of the Aurelii, perished in obscurity as a tragic statistic, would have eased Titus Mede’s concerns considerably. Arius, mad and bad as he was, still had a lot of supporters among the Colovians and Cyro-Nords who resented the Medes’ rise to power.

Fainting last night had been utterly embarrassing; waking up clean in a comfortable bed with a new dress laid out on the chest at its foot was even worse. The tan homespun garment and its undyed cotton chemise were a little loose in the torso and long in the skirt but nothing a belt couldn’t mend. Delphine had even supplied new calf-length boots with turned-over tops to replace her worn ones.

Gerdur, the hetwoman, was a handsome blonde a few years older than Callaina whose hands were callused from decades of hard labour. Her blue dress and white shift were of good quality cotton, discreetly mended in a few places, but the sapphire-set silver medallion she wore around her neck was worth two or three months’ wages. Delphine said her great-grandfather had been the bastard son of Whiterun’s Jarl and so that was why her family had been given permission to build a lumber mill by the White River.

_“Gerdur’s a Stormcloak. Her mother was one of the first Talosite martyrs in Skyrim… but more importantly, Ragnhild had been a lay priestess of Talos who assisted the clerics at your parents’ wedding.”_ When she’d been certain Callaina had gained consciousness and nerve, Delphine had tersely explained that Sigdrifa pretended her marriage never existed in order to marry Ulfric, whose father had been staunchly traditionalist, and only changed her tune when Rikke had the official marriage records copied and sent to all Imperial officials in Skyrim. Even now, many Stormcloaks argued that the marriage never existed and that it was an Imperial plot to undermine the moral authority of the last Shieldmaiden of Talos.

“You look like your mother,” Gerdur remarked as Callaina stacked up some firewood neatly. “Shorter, darker, skinnier… but you’re definitely the Stormsword’s get.”

“Believe me, we both wish it were otherwise,” Callaina said fervently.

“Having met the Stormsword…” Gerdur shuddered. “She’s safe enough on Ulfric’s leash. But if he dies…”

“Tullius is probably the best tactician in the Empire,” Callaina told her as she lined up another piece of wood for splitting. “I’ve never seen a situation he hasn’t been able to adapt to.”

“He’s never fought Nords on their home soil… and most of Ulfric’s officers are Legion veterans who were then drilled by Sigdrifa and other ex-Shieldmaidens,” Gerdur responded. “Anything Tullius has, the Stormcloaks will be able to counter.”

She gave Callaina a sympathetic smile. “Ralof said you were from Bruma and he’s described what that place is like for a Nord. You think Tullius will win because you’ve never had hope. I know Ulfric must win because Bruma will be our fate if he fails.”

The blonde went to speak to her husband Hod as he split logs into planks, leaving Callaina to chop firewood.

“Watch yourself if you’re talking to Sven,” advised the Bosmer, who had to be Faendal because of his name and bow.

“Mister ‘I’m a drunken wannabe bard who abuses his mother’?” Callaina asked dryly after splitting a piece. “I’m guessing he’s not the intellectual leading light in Riverwood.”

Faendal grinned. “Not by a long shot. But the fact is he’s my rival for Camilla Valeria, the sister of Lucan, who owns the Riverwood Trader.”

“She’s nice enough. She gave me an old comb because I lost everything at Helgen.” Callaina lined up another piece. Soon, she’d have earned enough to buy a few days’ worth of food, which should tide her over in Whiterun until she earned the carriage fare to Solitude. If she stayed more than a day or two in Riverwood, she’d bring unwelcome attention to Delphine.

“Look, could you do me a favour?” he asked softly. “I’ve written a letter that sounds like Sven. I think I’ve matched that Nord’s lack of wit perfectly.”

Callaina arched her eyebrows at him. “Are you so uncertain of Camilla that you want to trick her into telling Sven to piss off? That doesn’t seem very honourable or honest.”

Faendal flushed. “She won’t pick me or Sven! You’ve seen how Sven treats his mother; I doubt he’ll be better to a wife. But he’s _just_ charming enough to sweet-talk her into forgetting his boorishness.”

“That’s as may be, but speaking as a woman, if a man pulled that kind of trick on me, I’d kick him in the balls and send him packing after Sven,” Callaina countered. “Do something impressive. Didn’t I hear Lucan bitching about bandits stealing his golden claw or something? Retrieve it!”

His expression brightened. “You’re right! Look, Lucan’s promised five hundred septims for its return. I heard you have about ten septims to your name after Helgen and that’s why Gerdur’s letting you cut firewood today. Help me retrieve the claw from the bandits and I’ll split the reward with you.”

“I… My fighting style is hide behind something, throw Flames at it and hope it dies or get bored if I can’t sneak past it,” Callaina told him. “The Provincial Revenue Service doesn’t exactly provide combat training for its clerks and collectors.”

“Mine’s similar, only replace Flames with arrows,” Faendal said with a shrug. “Most Nord bandits have the subtlety of a mammoth and the perception of a drunken mole.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said dubiously. It was dangerous, but she’d survived Helgen. If they were clever and careful, they should be fun. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed with a grin. “Thanks for the advice… what was your name again?”

“Callaina Broken-Blade.”

…

“You better wear that hide armour,” Faendal told Callaina after they’d killed all the bandits at the little watchtower overlooking Riverwood. “It’s more protection than that dress and you don’t have mage robes to help replenish your magicka faster.”

She grimaced but nodded and out of courtesy, Faendal turned so she could change. The Nord (short and skinny for her kind but obviously so with that square jaw and those high cheekbones) was nearly as light on her feet as he was, though for far different reasons. The way she hunched her shoulders and glanced around reminded him of the Bosmer taken as tribute by the Dominion back in Valenwood, when they returned at all.

“I remember the raid,” he said. “These bandits hit at sunset, when everyone was tired and thinking of bed or the pub. Alvor had just gone in for dinner and Lucan was locking up when five of them came across the bridge. One punched him in the stomach, forced his way into the shop and stole the claw and some food while another helped herself to the steel and iron ingots Alvor left stacked up by the forge. Two tried to barge their way into the inn as Delphine rolled in a keg of mead, but she drew her dagger, sliced one’s throat within heartbeats and then threw the knife into the eye of the other. The last rallied his friends and they bolted back up here. Wasn’t hard to track them but…”

“Where’s the Jarl’s guards?” Callaina asked, leather creaking as she donned the armour.

“Balgruuf’s withdrawn most of his guards and fortified his borders with the Reach, the Pale and Eastmarch,” Faendal said with a sigh. “Technically speaking, Falkreath is a friendly border, and Ulfric’s soldiers do like to raid Whiterun because it’s the breadbasket of Skyrim. But Siddgeir’s too indolent to do anything about the bandits in Falkreath… and Gerdur heard a rumour that so long as they give him a cut, he’ll look the other way on their raids.”

“Lovely.” Her tone was ironic. “The Empire’s supposed to stand for law and order but they’re not doing their job.”

“The Old Holds have as many bandits. I go into the Rift once a month to hunt for bear and to collect ingredients I can’t find in Whiterun or Falkreath. Ivarstead’s fortified, but that’s because it’s near Haemar’s Pass, which is a backdoor into the Old Holds.” Faendal glanced to the sky. “And now we have dragons. Wonderful.”

“One of my ancestors was a Blade who served during the Oblivion Crisis,” Callaina observed. “She said what struck her about the Counts after the death of Uriel was the fact that despite literal gates to Oblivion opening up everywhere, they kept on playing politics, as if nothing would change. We now live in a time of prophecy and the Jarls, the Legion and just about every other politician in Skyrim will do the same.”

“Prophecy?”

Callaina sighed and walked around to face him, now clad in rough fur armour. “The Blades had a prophecy about the return of dragons and the end times. The Last Dragonborn will face Alduin World-Eater and stop him from… well… eating the world. But I bet neither Ulfric nor Tullius will make a truce so that the dragons can be dealt with.”

“I’ve heard Nords saying dragons are a sign of the end of days,” Faendal said slowly.

“Well, until I go kicking down Alduin’s throat, I’ll assume the Dragonborn will get around to defeating him,” Callaina said, far too cheerfully. “Shall we? I need to report to Solitude and I’d rather not have to travel with Hadvar.”

Faendal winced. Everyone knew the story about Hadvar’s father executing Gerdur and Ralof’s mother.

There were more bandits in the ruins, both outside and inside, culminating in the idiot Dunmer who got himself trapped by a giant frostbite spider. “Look, I’ll give you the golden claw if you let me out!” he begged after they’d killed it by luring it between pillar and doorway, then filling it with arrows and setting it on fire. “Please.”

“Keep your bow trained on him,” Callaina said to Faendal as she drew an iron dagger. “I’d hate for him to screw us over.”

The Dunmer elected to do the right thing, handing over the golden claw. “You can keep the damned thing. I don’t care what hidden power’s in the tomb, it’s not worth it.”

He then ran for the entrance and Callaina sighed. “Well, we have the golden claw.”

“We do. I’ve been in a Nord tomb or two. It’s the key to the inner sanctum.” Faendal glanced towards the tunnel that led deeper into the barrow. “We could head back. But I’ve found draugr to be slow and stupid…”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be greedy?” Callaina asked. “Returning Lucan’s claw should impress Camilla.”

“True. But Cyrods are impressed with coin and as much as I appreciate Gerdur giving me a job, it pays peanuts when you take into account tax to the Jarl, the cost of arrows, the repairs I need to do to my house…”

“I should really say no. Two hundred and fifty septims would be enough to get me to Solitude. But we’re living in a time of prophecy and something tells me having some extra coin would be useful…” Callaina sighed. “Let’s do this before I regret it.”

Draugr were slow and stupid, but on the whole, they were slightly more intelligent than the average bandit. Callaina demonstrated a gift for Telekinesis, smashing pots over draugr heads and staggering them enough for Faendal to shoot out their knees, then caving in their skulls with the woodcutter’s axe she’d borrowed from Gerdur. That was when Faendal wasn’t able to fire multiple arrows at targets lurching to their feet in cubby holes or stepping down from alcoves or patrolling around doors. One arrow, tied with a burning rag, ignited some earth tar and killed two in one go.

He was feeling pretty confident about their chances when Callaina unlocked the puzzle door to the inner sanctum, revealing a half-open cave with one of the curved Dragon Walls framing a stone sarcophagus. “That’s Dragonish!” she blurted, looking at the writing.

Well, she knew about some Blades prophecy about dragons, so Faendal supposed she knew something about Dragonish. “Might come in handy, with the dragons and all,” he observed.

They searched high and low, finding three chests of grave goods, and Callaina wandered over to examine the Dragonish writing. “Force,” she said, pointing at one jagged word. “Fus. It means ‘force’.”

“You can do taxes, set fire to things and read Dragonish,” Faendal said with a grin. “Someone out there will think you’re a great catch-“

“Behind you!” Callaina yelled. “Draugr!”

Faendal ducked just in time to avoid the jagged greatsword of the draugr in the sarcophagus parting head from neck. It laughed in ugly amusement, its ice-blue eyes shining in the darkness near the Dragon Wall.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Callaina’s cursing had the litany of a prayer as she poured all of her magicka into a Flames spell. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

The Flames weren’t stopping the bastard of a thing and Faendal couldn’t get away from it far enough to nock an arrow to his bow. He tripped over a rock and the draugr’s greatsword swung down. His bow deflected the blow enough to save his life, but it snapped. His greed was going to get them all killed-

Callaina _screamed._ Faendal had heard and faced the Nord Battle-Cry before but from her mouth, it had a palpable force, reverberating from wall to wall and gaining in power until the only sound in the cave was the scream. The draugr flinched, then staggered, turning for the nearest exit in its haste to escape that wail. It collapsed when a rock, thrown by the Nord, smashed half of its skull into dust.

When Faendal picked himself up and turned to thank her, Callaina was holding her throat with a pained expression. “Can’t speak?” he asked, earning a quick nod in return.

The draugr had a stone tablet etched with old Nord runes and what looked like a map of Skyrim, if it included County Bruma, sewn into its chest. He sawed at the thongs, shuddering at the thought, and tore the heavy plaque free. “The Jarl’s court wizard is into dragons,” he said, hefting it. “This will get us a few more septims.”

Callaina was panting and she stank of fear. Given they’d almost died to this powerful draugr because he got greedy, he couldn’t blame her.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “If I never see another Nord tomb, it’ll be too soon.”

“Amen,” Callaina said hoarsely. “A-fucking-men.”


	5. You Look Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, child abuse and war crimes.

“It’s so good to have the claw back!” Camilla enthused as she embraced Faendal. “Thank you. You went above and beyond.”

The Bosmer blushed red. “Callaina lent a hand. I promised I’d split Lucan’s reward with her.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Lucan said with a big grin. “Let me get my strongbox.”

Once the reward was shared out and the grave goods sold, Callaina found herself with about four hundred septims, which was more than she’d ever seen in her life outside of an Imperial tax chest. More than enough, Lucan assured her, for the carriage ride to Solitude from Whiterun. “You could even afford the best room at the Bannered Mare for a week and have change left over,” he said with a laugh.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

Callaina spent the rest of the evening at the Sleeping Giant, packing the dress she’d bought from Lucan – a faded purple with a soft green shift – and the one Delphine gave her, a half-wheel of cheese, flatbread and some smoked salmon for the trip to Solitude, and an amulet that Camilla said represented Kynareth among the Nords. Sven, a blunt-faced blond, gave her sour glances the entire time as Faendal and Camilla shared mead and lover’s talk in the corner. Hadvar drunk with his uncle while Hod left early with a small keg of mead, no doubt for Ralof and Bjarni.

“Heard you went tomb-raiding today,” Delphine said after the patrons had left and Orgnar began to clean up the common room. An innkeeper’s day was long, beginning before dawn and ending close to midnight. “Find anything interesting?”

“A stone tablet etched with runes and what looks like a pre-Septim map of Skyrim,” Callaina answered, gesturing to said item. “Faendal suggested I take it to Farengar in Whiterun.”

“Given he was a pupil of Esbern’s and I’ve been dropping hints about the return of the dragons as an ‘independent adventurer working for interested parties’, that’s exactly where it’s meant to go,” Delphine said dryly. “What will you do after that?”

“Report to whoever’s in charge at Castle Dour in Solitude,” Callaina told her with a sigh. “I… well. If Rikke’s now the commanding officer, I know she’ll listen to me about the dragons. She’s a Nord who knows the stories.”

“You should consider setting yourself up in Whiterun. Balgruuf’s powerful enough to make both sides of the civil war step warily around him and he’s pouring a lot of funds into the dragon problem, if the coin Farengar offered me for the Dragonstone’s anything to go by,” Delphine said. “The Empire will…”

“If I don’t go to Solitude, the Empire might consider that treason,” Callaina reminded her. “They’ve been trying to get me killed or find a reason to execute me for years. I’ll do what I can, where I can, when I can… but I’m no good to anyone executed for treason. Tullius has already done the carnificina. I’m worried about how far he’ll go if this civil war continues.”

“Well, I’d be the one to let Balgruuf know what happened at Helgen if I were you,” Delphine suggested. “Having a Jarl owe you one might keep the Elder Council off your back.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose. “Who’d have thought we two would be the last of Cloud Ruler Temple?”

Delphine smiled wryly. “I certainly didn’t. We’re survivors, Callaina. That means we’ll get through this where others will fail.”

The next morning, Callaina got up before dawn and entered the common room to see Orgnar baking some bread. “Help yourself,” the dark-haired man said. “Got some fresh churned butter too.”

Orgnar, for all his surliness, was a fantastic cook and she savoured a breakfast of still-warm wheat bread and melted butter. After a farewell, she left the Sleeping Giant and crossed the bridge. Faendal said she just had to follow the road to Whiterun, which was a half-day’s walk away.

She was on the switchback trail beside the waterfall when the vista of a three-tiered city dominating golden plains appeared. Whiterun was the trading hub of Skyrim and even from here, she could tell the place was prosperous and powerful. However, the crumbling walls boded ill for the future if someone should take umbrage at Balgruuf’s political neutrality.

Three Legionaries marched by, guarding a disconsolate Stormcloak in rags, and Callaina glanced away even before the Quaestor in charge told her to mind her own business. It had been more luck than skill that kept her alive in Bleak Falls Barrow. She couldn’t save a prisoner, even if she wanted to, from three trained soldiers. So why did she feel obscurely guilty?

Whiterun was surrounded by farms and a meadery, fields of green and gold stretching as far as the eye could see, and a variety of people from most races worked on them. The guards wore a uniform similar to Ulfric’s Stormcloaks, except their tabards were a rich wheat-gold, and only gave her a curious glance as she went past. To look at Whiterun, one wouldn’t think there was a province-wide civil war going on.

She was walking past a farm nestled below Bleak Falls Barrow when a stone whizzed past her head. Startled, she called Flames to her hand and stared at the monster tearing up a cabbage patch as three fighters, a man and two women, danced around it. Was it an Ogre? She didn’t think they lived north of County Bruma.

Using her Telekinesis, she wrenched a head-sized stone from the riverbank and flung it at the grey-skinned humanoid that was about twice the size of the male fighter – and he was bigger even than Bjarni. The stone struck it in the torso, making it stagger, and the warrior took advantage of the attack to hamstring the beast with two quick chops of his greatsword. After that, it was a matter of riddling it with arrows and ending its misery by cutting off its head.

“You handle yourself well,” said the older of the female fighters, a lithe redhead whose armour could best be described as strategic straps of leather and metal plates, approvingly. “You could make for a decent Shield-Sister.”

“What’s a Shield-Sister? Is that anything related to Shieldmaidens?” Callaina asked in confusion. “Because I am not, in any way, shape or form, Shieldmaiden material according to my mother.”

“Never heard of the Companions? I’m fairly sure we’re known even in the distant wilds of Falkreath,” the redhead said amusedly.

“I’m from County Bruma,” Callaina told her.

“The history of Jorrvaskr isn’t exactly on the curriculum in Cyrodiil,” observed the younger woman, obviously Akaviri-Colovian judging by her stocky build and straight dark hair. “And even less so in the Imperial Provincial Revenue Service. What in the name of Akatosh are you doing in Skyrim, Aurelia Callaina?”

“Ria, can you collect the giant’s nail fungus? Arcadia pays top septim for it,” ordered the redhead.

“Aela,” began the girl, only to be silenced by a raised eyebrow from the redhead. She muttered something but drew a dagger and started to scrape the dead giant’s toenails into a sack.

_Oh sweet Kynareth,_ Callaina realised with dismay as she recognised Ria’s profile from every septim she’d ever handled in her life, _the Imperial Heir is in Skyrim._

The big man wiped his greatsword – which was an odd blue-silver hue – on the giant’s leather loincloth. “Not many mages woulda gotten involved in the fight,” he rumbled. “Thanks for the help. I’m Farkas.”

“I’m Callaina. Callaina Broken-Blade.” She offered her hand and he shook it. “Was that thing an Ogre?”

Farkas shook his head. “A giant. Never seen one before?”

“We have Ogres in Bruma. On the whole, I think I prefer them to giants because avoiding them is easier.”

“We don’t know why the giant attacked Severio’s farm. Balgruuf’s given orders that the giant camps are to be left alone.” Aela clicked her tongue thoughtfully. “Maybe the dragon we saw the other day disturbed him. But since we can’t communicate with giants, we needed to fight him because they’re generally hostile to anyone coming close to them.”

“I see.” She didn’t, really. “I’ll… let you get to your toenail harvest.”

“You look strong. Come to Jorrvaskr and be a Companion,” Farkas urged with a smile.

“If I’m not Shieldmaiden material, I’m probably not Companion material,” Callaina said ruefully. “But thanks for the offer.”


	6. Missing in Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, genocide, torture, imprisonment and religious conflict. Off my feet for a few days thanks to my other ingrown toenail being done, so posting may be a little slower as I’m working from a laptop.

Even the beggars had meat on their bones in Whiterun. That was the thing that struck Callaina the most about the city. The more prosperous citizens wore dyed cotton and wool clothing, copper and silver jewellery, and a couple even wore silk and gold. There was no fear in them, no hunched shoulders and scurrying gait, and while two men abused a shopkeeper over her missing son for being a Stormcloak, most of them got along. She thought of Bruma and even the other cities in Cyrodiil. It was comparing night and day.

The Companions had gotten her inside before parting ways to seek out Jorrvaskr. Callaina went to the Bannered Mare and rented a room for the next two nights, then went to the bathhouse and luxuriated in a tub of hot soapy water. Riverwood had a half-tub and a sauna, so Callaina revelled in the chance to wash every last bit of Helgen and Bleak Falls Barrow from her skin. Lucan had recommended Belethor’s General Goods store for more varied goods than what the Riverwood Trader had, so she went there for a looksee. Much to her surprise, there was a plain silver ring with a Muffle enchantment that she could afford, so she chose to purchase it. Not that she was likely to go tomb raiding again any time soon, but quiet feet had served her well thus far, and would serve her well in the future. She also purchased quills, good paper and ink before leaving the shop. A good concise report of Helgen’s events would be useful…

“Please,” begged the old woman of the two men, one of them in Legion armour. “Tell me where my son Thorald is.”

“Why, I’m keeping him in my cellar,” sneered the older of the two men.

“The fact is, Thorald chose his side and he chose poorly,” said the other contemptuously. “He’s probably hanging from a cross now. You should accept Ulfric won’t win or you’ll join him.”

“Your compassion is astonishing,” Callaina said sarcastically as she paused on the way to the Bannered Mare. “That’s really going to win over the hearts and minds of Skyrim when Tullius defeats Ulfric. I’m sure the Elder Council will recommend you to a diplomatic post immediately.”

“No one asked for your opinion, stranger,” the older man retorted. “The Grey-Manes are traitors and their son Thorald died a traitor’s death.”

“Go and kick a beggar or something. That seems to be your modus operandi.” Callaina pointedly turned away to face the Grey-Mane woman. “Are you alright?”

She wiped reddened eyes. “Thorald fights for Ulfric, it’s true. My husband’s aunt was Ulfric’s mother. When he called, we answered to help our kinsman.”

Callaina sighed. “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, Tullius prefers to execute his enemies cleanly. Your son would have to the headsman’s block, not the cross.”

“He’s alive. I know it.” The Grey-Mane woman glared at the two men. “The Battle-Borns know something. I see it in their eyes.”

Callaina pursed her lips and then nodded. “Yes, they were too emphatic about your son’s likely fate.”

“We were once friends with the Battle-Borns,” the woman said sadly. “Then Olfrid got money, bought his son a commission in the Haafingar First Legion and won some fat Legion contracts. He probably sold Thorald out.”

“He reminds me of a few folks I knew back in Bruma,” Callaina agreed with a grimace. “I work for the Provincial Revenue Service. Let me ask a few questions. If nothing else, I can find out what happened to him.”

“You must be Sigdrifa’s girl, the one she left behind when she fled Cyrodiil,” the old woman noted. “I’m Fralia Grey-Mane.”

“Callaina Broken-Blade,” was her answer. “How’d you guess? Gerdur said I looked like my mother but…”

“That’s why. The Grey-Manes are cash-poor but we are rich in kin and honour.” Fralia smiled weakly. “Your offer is the act of a true Nord. I don’t know why you feel loyalty to the Empire but… well, you’ve shown more decency and honour than Olfrid ever could. If the Imperials had more folk like you, maybe the civil war would never have happened.”

“I… Thank you.” Callaina took a deep breath. “So, aside from those two lovely pieces of work, are there any other Battle-Borns I could question?”

There was, in fact. Jon, a lanky blond in love with Olfina, the Grey-Manes’ only daughter. Callaina approached him in the Bannered Mare’s common room and sat at the stool next to him.

“I’m not interested,” Jon said politely, turning to gaze at Olfina.

“I’m Callaina Broken-Blade, agent of the Imperial Provincial Revenue Service,” she replied crisply. “I’m here to investigate certain irregular dealings your father Olfrid has had-“

Jon blanched. “I-I’m…”

_So,_ Callaina thought with satisfaction, _Olfrid’s been a naughty little boy._

“I’m given to understand he may have turned a traitor over to the authorities and not reported the reward to the Revenue Service,” Callaina continued, watching the young man squirm. “In times of war, we need to take a small contribution to the Legion’s efforts. I’m sure Olfrid, being a loyal son of the Empire, understands.”

“He… We… didn’t.” Jon collected his wits with admirable haste. “I swear to you, we didn’t sell Thorald out.”

“Do you have evidence?” Callaina asked pointedly.

“I do!” He rose to his feet. “Meet me by the Talos shrine.”

Callaina did so, the twilight blue over Whiterun, and took the opportunity to examine the Nordic depiction of Talos. Bearded, clad in scalemail, a sword in his hands piercing a serpent at his feet. The conquering warlord as opposed to the Cyrod depiction of the crowned wise ruler of Tiber Septim’s later years.

Jon arrived shortly after, thrusting a letter with Tullius’ own seal into her hands. “Read it! Whatever my family has done, we never betrayed Thorald.”

Callaina read it. “Well, _shit_.”

“Sorry you won’t be getting any bouses for reporting my father as skimping on his taxes,” Jon said sarcastically. “Assuming you _are_ with the Service.”

“I am.” Callaina sighed. “If your father knew this, why did he have to an arsehole to Fralia?”

“Because we all know what happens to those who fall into Thalmor hands,” Jon said soberly. “My father thought it better they mourn for Thorald than hope for his return.”

“I’m from Bruma. I can certainly understand that viewpoint.” Callaina tucked the letter into her pocket. “You better head back to the pub before Olfina misses you.”

“If you’re loyal to the Empire, why are you helping Fralia?” Jon countered.

Callaina turned away, unable to answer the question herself.

Fralia answered the door when she knocked. “Come in, quickly, before the Battle-Borns see you!”

“Mother, who is this?” a big man with the clan’s silver-grey hair demanded as they entered the common room.

“A kinswoman, Avulstein – Sigdrifa’s daughter from her first marriage,” Fralia assured him. “I think she got some answers out of the Battle-Borns about Thorald.”

“I thought she was a spineless broken little yes-woman for the Empire,” Avulstein observed. “That’s what Sigdrifa always says.”

“I’d compare Mother to a motherless daughter of a winter-dead draugr, but I wouldn’t want to malign the draugr by implying it had anything to do with her,” Callaina said acidly. “I’ve done what I must to survive and that has allowed me to find out what happened to Thorald. Are you going to continue to be offensive or accept the news, grim as it is?”

Another Grey-Mane, this one an older man with the hefty arms of a blacksmith, roared with laughter. “Farkas said you were a strong one and Aela called you brave, lass!”

Callaina blushed and handed the letter to Avulstein. “I’m sorry. The news is even worse than we thought, though I’d begun to suspect. For what’s worth, Olfrid thought he was doing you a kindness so you could mourn Thorald cleanly.”

The big man read the letter, his mouth tightening. “We need to rescue him. They wouldn’t have taken him if they didn’t mean to make him a quisling.”

“Ulfric’s got enough soldiers to take a Thalmor prison?” Callaina asked, eyebrows rising.

“He does. But Sigdrifa wouldn’t give us the people to do so, stingy heartless bitch that she is.” Avulstein inhaled shakily. “I owe you an apology. You’ve got more honour and courage in your little toe than the Stormsword has in her entire body. No matter your allegiance, Clan Grey-Mane will stand as kin to you.”

“Avulstein…” the blacksmith said slowly. “You can’t assault Northwatch Keep on your own.”

“I know. But Bjarni and Ralof are at the Whiterun camp and Thorald has a lot of friends there. Hjornskar will give us ten or so good soldiers. If we strike hard and fast-“

“You’re still toast. The Thalmor keep a complement of about thirty guards and five battlemages at even their smallest facilities, most of whom have been practicing their arts for twice as long as most Nords have been alive.” Callaina took a deep shaky breath. “What I do is technically treason, but I was made to watch what happened at Cloud Ruler Temple to the Blades, and every Talos worshipper they captured in Bruma. I couldn’t save them. But you have Tullius’ handwriting and his seal. I can copy both. I can give you a writ that will force the Thalmor to surrender Thorald, if you’ve got the cunning to pass yourself off as a Legion officer.”

“You’ll have to shave your beard and crop your hair,” Fralia said slowly. “But it could be done.”

Avulstein smiled grimly. “It will be done. And I have a few surprises…”

He trailed off. “You should go, Callaina, once you’ve done the writ. I hope one day you see the truth of the Stormcloaks and join us. Someone with your inside knowledge of Imperial bureaucracy…”

“Tullius might be on the back foot thanks to Helgen but he’ll adapt fast,” Callaina said quietly. “As for the truth of the Stormcloaks, remember, my mother stands at the heart of them. Pardon me if I think I’d rather not see that.”

“She won’t be around forever.” Avulstein sighed. “Get this writ done. You can consider yourself one of our kin, for what it’s worth, because you are.”

Callaina nodded and got her writing supplies. “I need a bit of metal that can be shaped into a seal…”


	7. The Jarl of Whiterun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, religious conflict and imprisonment.

Helgen had happened on the 17th of Last Seed. Callaina had spent the 18th, 19th and 20th in Riverwood. She’d fought a giant and assisted the Grey-Manes on the 21st. Now, the morning of the 22nd, five days almost to the hour of Alduin’s attack, she was climbing the stairs to Dragonsreach with the Dragonstone and a concise written report of Helgen for the Jarl of Whiterun. After this, she would take the carriage to Solitude and do what she could to research dragonlore in between her duties as a tax official. Tullius was pragmatic enough to listen to her.

Dragonsreach was a grand fortress that she instinctively knew was the inspiration for all great halls in the Nord mythic tradition. Inside, it was built from warm waxed wood, hung with faded banners and carpeted with Khajiit rugs worth her weight in gold, with the eyeless skull of a dragon fixed above the horse-carved throne on which a rangy, platinum-blond Nord slouched. His garb was indigo silks trimmed with snow-fox fur and fastened with golden chains, a ruby-and-emerald gold circlet topping a long face made longer by his goatee, and his tenor had the same drawling accent as so many other Whiterun folk. On one side was a hook-nosed Niben-man and on the other a flame-haired Dunmer, all three of them arguing about the dragon problem.

“Fuck the Jarl of Falkreath!” snapped Balgruuf after his Nibenese adviser suggested that Siddgeir would assume guards posted at Riverwood was a sign of joining the Stormcloaks. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!”

_Wise man,_ Callaina thought with approval. But before she could speak, the womer saw her, and approached with drawn sword.

“The Jarl isn’t holding audiences today,” she said darkly. “Who let you in?”

“My name is Callaina Broken-Blade, I entered with the Companions, I have the Dragonstone and I have written up a report about Helgen for the Jarl,” Callaina answered calmly. “I apologise for the delay between event and report, but I imagine a bloodied bureaucrat in hysterics wouldn’t have been permitted inside the gates.”

Given she’d pitched her voice loud enough for Balgruuf to hear, there was no chance of him missing her words.

“Let her through, Irileth,” Balgruuf ordered. “I’d like to know what the Stormsword’s firstborn has to say.”

“I see you are well informed, my lord,” Callaina said with a sigh.

“You look like the Stormsword, if Sigdrifa had had a Redguard father,” Balgruuf said dryly. “I’ve met your father twice on trade missions to Elinhir. A wise Jarl pays attention to events beyond his Hold.”

Irileth stepped back. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

Callaina stepped forward, curtsied, and offered Balgruuf her report. His eyes widened as he read it, as she’d included everything she recalled about the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn, her observations at Bleak Falls Barrow, and her belief that the dragon who attacked Helgen was Alduin himself.

“So, we may very well live in the end times,” Balgruuf sighed when he finished the report. “Well, I am a Nord, and I will not give up until I’m kicking down Alduin’s throat and even then, I hope he chokes on me.”

He turned to Irileth. “Send men to Riverwood. I don’t need Gerdur or Alvor bitching at me for ignoring them. Ralof and Hadvar are irritating enough.”

Callaina couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“I’ll reinforce Rorikstead too,” the womer promised. “Tullius has lost critical supplies and Rorikstead’s crops are near to harvest.”

“Good.” Balgruuf ran a hand over his face. “Come, Callaina. Let’s give Farengar the Dragonstone and see what he has to say.”

She followed him across to the workroom, where a portly dark-haired Nord with impressive sideburns was poring through a book. “Farengar, we have the Dragonstone,” Balgruuf drawled. “Didn’t you say it was relevant to your research?”

“Given it’s a reported map of dragon burial sites, of course it is, Jarl Balgruuf,” Farengar retorted sardonically.

“I also want you to read this report. Our guest here is Callaina Broken-Blade, who’s the last of the Aurelii, and she’s made some very plausible conclusions concerning the identity of the dragon that attacked Helgen.”

Callaina put the Dragonstone carefully on Farengar’s desk and fished out a copy of her report. “I have a few of these. Thank Julianos for a bit of Alteration magic and a copying spell.”

Farengar’s eyes brightened. “You’re a far cry from the brutes I usually must deal with! Let me read this…”

He read it swiftly, then examined the Dragonstone. “Well then, Jarl Balgruuf, this is definitely the tablet I was looking for. I’ll have a map of dragon burial sites ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Good. The dragons are our biggest priority. If they win, we all die.” Balgruuf sighed, rubbed his mouth and chin with long elegant fingers, and looked to Callaina. “Did Tullius send you?”

“I escaped Helgen on my own and made it to Riverwood. Faendal told me about the Dragonstone after we’d joined forces to deal with the Bleak Falls Barrow bandits.” Callaina smiled wryly. “I escaped Helgen with nine septims to my name.”

“And as you said, arriving here bloody and in hysterics would have the guards denying you entrance,” Balgruuf observed. “I think there are hidden depths to you, Callaina Broken-Blade. You’ve done Whiterun a service. In the normal scheme of things, I’d offer you the right to buy property in my Hold but…”

“I’m Aurelii and we are interdicted,” Callaina finished. “I didn’t do this for reward, Jarl Balgruuf. I have the coin for the carriage to Solitude. I did this because I thought it was a good idea.”

“I know.” Balgruuf sighed. “If you stay a day or so in Whiterun, I’m sure I can think of something…”

He waved a hand. “Come see me tomorrow morning. Thank you again.”

Callaina curtsied to him, nodded to Farengar, and headed for the door. One more day in Whiterun couldn’t hurt.


	8. Welcome to Jorrvaskr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes and religious conflict.

“You’re thinking about the Aurelii woman again.”

Balgruuf glanced at Irileth as she stood at his left side and smiled ruefully. “Still convinced she’s a danger?”

“Politically, yes. But I suspect you see an opportunity.”

“Interdicted or not, she has a direct claim to Falkreath and an indirect claim to Bruma. Given how her mother treated her, if Mede had been a little less paranoid and a little shrewder, he could have made a powerful ally of her. But instead…” Balgruuf shook his head.

“The Medes aren’t a patch on the Septims but the Septims who remain, if Septims they are, have been touched by the Madgoddess,” Irileth pointed out. “As you know, Sheogorath-“

“Is one of the four corners of the House of Troubles, I know,” Balgruuf finished wearily. “Callaina is frightened, maybe a little broken, but she is not mad. I can tell that much.”

“No, but something comes on her heels. She is… what do the Nords call it? Doom-driven. Yes, she’s doom-driven,” Irileth told him candidly. “Whatever she thinks, she is a prime driver of this ‘Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn’. Do you want that in Whiterun?”

Balgruuf studied his huscarl and then the moon-and-star ring on her finger. “If she is a Septim, as Arius claimed, and if she is doom-driven, as you claim, then she’s likely to be the Last Dragonborn. Whiterun is already in it, Irileth. If these are the end of days, then let us show our final best worth. Nords don’t run from their doom; we embrace it.”

“We established a long time ago that Nords were insane,” the Nerevarine retorted ruefully. “But no matter what, I will stand by your side until the end.”

“For that, I am grateful.” Balgruuf leaned back in the Stallion Throne and steepled his fingers. “Now what would be an appropriate reward to give her? Let it not be said Whiterun is stingy.”

…

Given that she’d promised to wait a day to see how Balgruuf would reward her, Callaina explored Whiterun from one end to another, from Dragonsreach to the gate. The Temple of Kynareth was very different to the Great Chapel in Cyrodiil, open and airy with the scent of lavender, cotton and mountain flowers wafting in through the open windows, the air shimmering with golden chimes. She knelt before the altar, a thing of sensuous curves that implied both raptorial and draconic features, and let that wind cleanse her.

Callaina couldn’t say why she worshipped Kynareth when Zenithar was more popular among other Imperial bureaucrats. Maybe it was because she’d never see wealth or power thanks to the sins of her parents. Maybe it was because Kynareth was the patron goddess of the Nords and whatever her mother liked to think, she was a Nord. Maybe it was because there was something cleansing about standing on a mountain and letting the icy air blow away one’s grief and resentment over what couldn’t be changed.

But she left the Temple feeling better and out of curiosity, she crossed the city square to take a look at Jorrvaskr, home of the legendary Companions. The Grey-Manes worked for them, it seemed, and from the Skyforge she could hear the sound of Eorlund’s hammer striking steel.

Jorrvaskr’s interior was hung with banners, ancient weapons and tapestries of previous heroes, its furniture was old, dark and sturdy, and its inhabitants more diverse than Callaina expected. A white-haired young woman and an auburn-haired Dunmer were fighting in the middle of the great hall, urged on by the others, including the Imperial Heir. Did Balgruuf know Akaviria Nona Mara Medea was a Companion in Whiterun? Somehow she doubted it.

The white-haired girl sent the Dunmer sprawling with a hard right-hook. “That’s how a real Nord fights!” she crowed.

“Njada, don’t be arrogant in victory,” chided an older one-eyed man. “Or the next opponent might gut you when you’re gloating.”

“More importantly, you shouldn’t gloat over beatin’ a Shield-Brother up,” rumbled Farkas. “We’re a family an’ we stick together.”

Unaccountably, Njada flushed. Then she helped the Dunmer up.

“I see why you’re called Stonearm,” he said wryly, massaging his jaw gingerly.

“There is no right or wrong combat style, unless you’re attacking an enemy from behind or using dishonourable tactics like poison,” lectured the one-eyed Companion. “Njada, you set your feet and meet an enemy’s blow with your shield. Athis dances and dodges, relying on agility. So long as you meet an enemy head-on, both styles are valid.”

“Yes, Skjor,” the two said in unison.

“Time for laps around the city,” Farkas announced. “With the return of the dragons, we can’t be fat and lazy. C’mon, Torvar, Ria. You two been sittin’ around drinkin’ too much mead lately.”

Torvar, a wheat-blond Nord, groaned and got to his feet while Ria leapt up and jogged to the door.

“Oh, you must be that lovely young woman Fralia told me about,” observed a wiry old woman with the Grey-Manes’ distinctive silver-grey locks. “I’m Tilma, sister to those two louts Eorlund and Vignar. Welcome to Jorrvaskr.”

“Thanks,” Callaina said with a flush. “I’m Callaina Broken-Blade.”

“So, you made it up here. Planning on joining up?” Aela asked as she wandered over.

“Sure. Just give fifty more pounds of muscle and the skills of a warrior and I’ll consider it,” Callaina said wryly. “My fighting style tends to be hide behind the biggest thing and throw a spell at it.”

“Well, we have Farkas here…” Aela grinned.

“I’m given to understand you lent some aid in rescuing Thorald,” an old, tanned male Grey-Mane said warmly.

“I, yes.” Callaina flushed again. “If it gets out…”

“To Oblivion with the Empire,” the Grey-Mane observed. “You’re the stepdaughter of Ulfric Stormcloak-“

“-Whose mother left her to the Empire,” Callaina finished. “My own brothers think I’m a spineless puppet. What do I owe her or them, even if Ulfric’s rebellion was viable, which I doubt greatly. I don’t remember Mother paying attention to little things like bureaucracy or logistics.”

“Vignar, no politics,” Skjor said firmly.

Vignar grumbled. “The Empire lost its legitimacy when it sold out its god to save itself.”

“My grandfather’s rebellion played a large part in that,” Callaina said softly. “So if you’re going to lay some blame, put it on Arius Aurelius.”

“No politics,” Skjor repeated firmly.

Callaina nodded, relieved as Vignar muttered something and walked away. “So, this is Jorrvaskr. Is true you have the weapon of Ysgramor himself?”

“Only shards…” Skjor smiled. “Why don’t you come and meet our Harbinger Kodlak? You’ve fought with the Companions in a battle and that entitles you to Jorrvaskr’s hospitality.”

She echoed his smile. “Why not? I doubt I’ll ever have another chance to meet a hero of legend.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll surprise yourself.”


	9. Doom-Driven Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“Are you alright?” Irileth asked, her tone a mixture of suspicion and concern.

“I went drinking with the Companions last night,” Callaina answered with a wince. Her head was pounding like a Legion marching drum, her mouth tasted like a Bravil sewer and her eyes hurt from the overly bright (and disgustingly cheerful) morning sun.

Irileth laughed in wry sympathy, though the suspicion never quite left her garnet-red gaze. “An amateur should never compete with a professional until they have a little more experience under their belt.”

“I’m pretty sure Skjor could outdrink Sanguine,” Callaina said ruefully. “Is the Jarl free to see me? I really should get on the carriage to Solitude before I make another poor life choice.”

They stopped by Farengar’s workroom to get a weak healing potion for her headache, then went upstairs and outside to the Great Porch. Callaina looked up and realised the apparatus for a dragon-trap still remained. “Balgruuf should make sure that’s working,” she said to Irileth. “I’ve got a feeling it’ll be needed before this is over.”

“You want to trap a dragon in my palace?” Balgruuf asked, rising from his seat at the table.

“Not at the moment. But the time may come…” Callaina shrugged, rubbing her temples.

“She went drinking with the Companions,” Irileth told Balgruuf wryly.

“Heh. I learned not to do that after the third time. Skjor could drink a lake of mead and Farkas is nearly as thirsty.” Balgruuf sat back down, gesturing to a seat. “Help yourself. It’s not much compared to my usual board but it’s better than what Hulda serves to guests of a morning.”

Callaina obeyed. There were three kinds of bread, two jars of different preserves, goat’s, sheep and cow’s cheese, ham, bacon, honey, fruit, butter… It was more variety than she was used to, given that neither the Restful Watchman back in Bruma or the various Legion garrisons she dwelt in believed in providing a luxurious breakfast. She spread some honey and butter on wheat bread, took a bite, and almost moaned at the taste of fresh _everything._ Breakfast was usually day-old bread, ash-baked flatbread or hardtack with a scraping of butter or preserves and a piece of crumbling cheese.

“Thank you,” she said once she’d swallowed. “It’s _delicious_ …”

“They call me ‘gullveig’ – gold-hungry – the other Jarls, in particular those in the Old Holds,” Balgruuf said after swallowing a mouthful of mountain-flower tea. “They laugh at my preoccupation with trade and diplomacy. Every coin I spend on myself is matched by one I put into my Hold. They may have the greater armies… but when or if they burn my Hold, they will discover that ashes and ruin can’t be eaten.”

Callaina cut herself another slice of bread and spread a red jam on it that proved to be stingingly sweet with an aftertaste of frost and fire, as if the clean icy air of the Jeralls had been distilled into a fruit. “I know what you mean. Deeds are done once and then they are done with. But tasks are never-ending and it’s only when they’re not being done that the doers of deeds realise how necessary they are.”

Balgruuf smiled broadly. “We understand each other, you and I.”

He leaned back in his seat, cup in hand. “Have you considered leaving the Provincial Revenue Service? A woman who knows the tax code would make a welcome addition to any wise ruler’s court.”

Callaina sighed, reaching for a cup and a jug of milk. “I think that if I tried to make a life for myself outside that which the Empire allows me, especially one that promised any kind of financial or political independence, the Elder Council would find a reason to execute me. I’m literally only alive today because my ancestress Aurelia, the Hero of Kvatch, became an aspect of Sheogorath and threatened madness and ruin on the Medes if I died.”

Balgruuf’s mouth tightened. “Mede’s a damn fool. If he’d taken you in, treated you as an asset instead of a threat…”

“Could have, should have, would have,” Callaina finished with another sigh. “But is it wise to call the Emperor a fool? That’s treason.”

“So’s forging General Tullius’ handwriting and seal to rescue a Stormcloak agent,” Balgruuf said dryly.

Milk slopped over her hand as she started in shock. “How did you know…?”

“I trade in information as well as gold and grain and goods,” Balgruuf said quietly, handing her a cloth. “I haven’t chosen a side in the civil war because both sides are right and wrong. The Empire uses us as a larder and recruitment station, spat on our sacrifices at the Battle of the Red Ring by denying our god, and at the best of times your average petty bureaucrat considers himself better than a Jarl whose line extends back to Wulfharth.”

“And then you have the Stormcloaks, whose benefits include racism, xenophobia and religious fanaticism… and that’s just my mother,” Callaina agreed. “I’m sure Ulfric and his friends have their own flaws.”

“More than you know,” Balgruuf said heavily. “The Empire would benefit Whiterun considerably, but we’d have to spit on everything that makes us Nord. The Stormcloaks would destroy our financial and manufacturing base by abusing non-Nords. You should hear what your mother did to Eastmarch when she was Regent. Dozens died from neglect because she funnelled most of the resources to the army.”

“I can imagine,” Callaina said softly. “If it didn’t involve Talos, being a hardy Nord that loved Talos, or accepting that her will was really that of Talos, you were of no use to her.”

“We understand each other, you and I,” Balgruuf repeated. “Perhaps-“

Irileth came bursting out onto the Great Porch. “The western watchtower is being attacked by a dragon!”

“Is it black with red eyes?” Callaina asked urgently, rising to her feet. “If so, it’s probably Alduin.”

“No. Bronze, my lady,” reported the panting guard next to Irileth.

“Then it can die.” Callaina took a deep breath and steadied herself, wracking her brain and memory for all that she knew. “The Voice is a kind of magic, so use lightning to drain its ability to Shout. Break the wings. When it’s on the ground, flank it and shower it with arrows. Expect numerous casualties. Pull the Companions out of Jorrvaskr. It’s their job to deal with things like this.”

“We can’t afford the Companions,” Irileth said grimly.

“Appeal to their sense of honour.” She took another deep breath. “And tell them that Callaina Broken-Blade will do as her Akaviri ancestors did and stand against the dragons, even if she must stand alone.”

“Shame them into helping? You, I like,” Irileth said with grim satisfaction.

“You aren’t a fighter,” Balgruuf said, rising from his seat.

“I have enough magicka to throw a few boulders. Believe me, I’ll be keeping as hidden as possible.” She stood up, clasping her hands together to conceal their trembling. “Dragons can die, even without a Dragonborn. Use the tactics I’ve suggested and we’ll come through to the other side with minimal casualties.”

“Do it,” Balgruuf ordered tersely. “Irileth, don’t fail me.”

“Have I ever?” she asked in dark amusement. “Come on, Callaina. Let us kill a dragon.”

They gathered with Farkas, Vilkas and Njada of the Companions and ten guards at the gate. “Killing a dragon with a hangover,” Vilkas said with a wince. “This will be one for the chronicles.”

“If we don’t become dragon shit,” one of the guards said in morbid amusement.

Callaina inhaled deeply. “Let’s do this. Remember, use lightning magic on the bastard and aim to cripple his wings. Then flank him and have the archers use him for target practice. Njada and Irileth, you’re the best option for drawing enemy fire. Farkas, Vilkas, work to hamstring the son of a wyrm. I’ll break his wings with rocks. Guards, use arrows. Understood?”

“Understood,” Farkas rumbled. “Lead the way, dragon expert.”

_The best way to instil confidence in your subordinates is to sound like you know what you’re doing,_ Julius Martin Aurelius wrote to Titus Mede I in the years after the Stormcrown Interregnum. _For confidence in your soldiers is worth a thousand swords and shields of Anvil steel._

Shame Callaina didn’t have much confidence in herself. It would have been prudent to keep herself out of this fight. But deep down in the marrow of her bones, the same intuition that warned her when an offer from a sympathetic person of employment or a financial opportunity or something else turned out to be a ploy of the Penitus Oculatus to entrap her in treason… warned her that if she didn’t go, the loss of life would be catastrophic. So went she did.

The dragon returned shortly after their arrival at the smoking ruins of the western watchtower. “Brit grah!” he laughed. “I had forgotten what sport mortals can provide.”

“Then enjoy this, dragon!” Irileth said as lightning flashed from her hand to crawl over the beast’s bronze-scaled hide. “I am Irileth, star-marked and dragon-born, daughter of Azura. Come, dragon, and let us play together!”

“He hears Dragonborn and he’ll come straight for you,” Callaina squawked. “Are you _insane_?”

“I can’t die. I’m fireproof. I’m the perfect target.” Irileth grinned at her. “Let me show you how a doom-driven hero does things around here.”

“Zu’u Mirmulnir, AH-RAH-LIIV,” retorted the dragon. “My lord Al-Du-In-“ Callaina gathered her magicka, picked up a twenty-pound rock and threw it at his right wing, making Mirmulnir skip a beat and lose altitude. “Aim for the wings!”

For all his boasting, Mirmulnir was far less invincible than Alduin, eventually ploughing into the earth when he misjudged a dive at Irileth and clipped the side of the ruined tower. From there, it went downhill for the dragon as he died, a behemoth bitten to death by ants.

“Let’s make sure this overgrown lizard is dead,” Irileth said with weary satisfaction. “Callaina, you’re the resident dragon expert. Stab him in the eye or something-“

“Dovahkiin? Niid!” Mirmulnir cried out in despair as they approached, flesh beginning to burn away.

“Well, Irileth,” Callaina observed dryly. “Looks like that ‘dragon-born’ in the Nerevarine was more than figurative or metaphorical-“

The power surged through her, mixing with the Word she’d translated in Bleak Falls Barrow to erupt in a mighty “FUS!” that scattered the bleached dragon bones.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Callaina swore as she fainted.


	10. The Last Dragonborn Anybody Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, child abandonment, torture, imprisonment, war crimes and religious conflict. The ship is officially Callaina/Balgruuf.

“What’s that noise?”

Bjarni paused, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Mother. And she’s screaming.”

“In pain or is she swearing?” Ralof asked, giving the Palace of the Kings an apprehensive glance.

“I’d need to get closer. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good news.”

Bjarni pushed the doors open before the guards could get them, praying that it wasn’t news about the death of his father. If Ulfric had died at Helgen, the Stormcloaks would be dealt a blow as crippling as the Legion had been by the dragon’s attack.

Jorleif exited the kitchen in a hurry, nodding to the war room. “Praise Talos you’ve returned. We just got bad news from Whiterun.”

“Father?” Bjarni asked after steeling himself.

“No, thank the Nine. He came in yesterday.”

“Balgruuf’s joined the Empire?” That wouldn’t account for Sigdrifa screaming her head off though. And it was a mixture of obscenity and raw rage.

“Worse.” He led them into the war room, where an exhausted Galmar and Ulfric pored over a map with red and blue flag-pins stuck into it. There was a new addition: a roughly carved dragon pinned right on Whiterun.

“A dragon attacked Whiterun?” Ralof asked, shaken.

“Aye,” Galmar said grimly. “Attacked and was destroyed.”

“Balgruuf’s the Dragonborn?” Bjarni ventured. Well, the man came from the line of Wulfharth…

“No,” reported Avulstein Grey-Mane, who’d cropped his hair and shaved his beard Legion-style recently, dirt and soot still streaking his skin. “But the Dragonborn’s his Thane. A woman of honour and courage _despite_ what a certain Stormsword believed.”

“Callaina Broken-Blade,” Ulfric said with a weary sigh, passing a hand over her face. “The only good news is that Tullius and Rikke are surely feeling as much shock, fear and chagrin as we. If the Dragonborn were to use her ancestry and power…”

“And what if she does?” Avulstein challenged. “She helped get Thorald out, Ulfric. Clan Grey-Mane owes her a debt of honour and will stand with her.”

Bjarni exchanged glances with Ralof. “We begin with an apology and the offer of wergild.”

“That, I suspect, is what has Sigdrifa screaming,” Galmar observed with a ghost of wry humour to his rumbling baritone. “To have to admit she was wrong about _everything_ …”

“Callaina has no reason to help any of you,” Avulstein agreed. “She helped Thorald because she had the power to do so and the Empire made her watch every Talosite martyrdom in Bruma from about the age of eight. But she still believes Tullius will adapt to the changed circumstances and win. She has no reason to believe or want otherwise.”

Bjarni sat down heavily in a chair. His mother had gone from the obscene to the profane upstairs. He wasn’t even sure if she’d stopped for breath. “Me calling her a spineless puppet probably didn’t help things. I’ll take the apology myself. Balgruuf holds to the old ways.”

“If we force the issue by delivering the axe, Balgruuf will have the moral superiority,” Jorleif said with a sigh. “Gods, I hope Tullius and Rikke are suffering as we are.”

…

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I hope not, Legate Primus,” Tullius said dryly. “We have a war to win and I need your insight into your fellow Nords.”

Rikke reflexively smiled, then her expression grew sombre. “Balgruuf has us by the short and curlies, General. The Empire’s wronged Callaina and while the Stormcloaks have been nigh as bad…”

“Sigdrifa only abandoned her. The Elder Council made her life a living hell.” That came from the handsome middle-aged Colovian leaning against the wall, resplendent in his red-and-gold armour. Gaius Maro the Elder, who commanded the Penitus Oculatus, was more courtier than soldier – but he wasn’t incompetent at either trade. “This… ye gods. This surname she’s taken, the revelation she’s this Last Dragonborn…”

“Knowing what I know of Callaina, I doubt Broken-Blade is a _deliberate_ reference to the Sword of the Septims,” Rikke said soothingly. “For the first time in her life, for the span of a few days, she wasn’t under surveillance or being reminded she was of traitor’s blood.”

“And look what she did,” Tullius muttered, gesturing to the letter on his map-table. “Forged my name and seal to break several prisoners out of Northwatch Keep!”

Maro’s gaze sharpened. “You’re sure it’s her?”

“Callaina had access to Whiterun, where a letter from my own hand was sent recently, and she was spotted speaking to both the Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns,” Tullius said sardonically. “The woman is a skilled clerk and there isn’t a clerk alive who can’t forge a signature and seal, especially if they’ve learned the little scribe magics from the School of Alteration.”

“No one misses Northwatch Keep,” Maro said after a moment’s silence. “I deplore her choice of tactics while I sympathise with her reasons. Who else knows about the letter?”

“Clan Grey-Mane. Avulstein’s been an agent of Ulfric’s – they’re kin through Ulfric’s mother Sonja Grey-Mane – and Callaina probably coached him on how to pull it off,” Rikke told him. “If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure those noises outside are Sigdrifa’s shrieks because she’s realised how much she’s fucked up.”

The Legate Primus pushed back her hair. “If we conscript her, we prove to the Stormcloaks we’re tyrants with no respect for Nord culture. If we kill her, the world will be devoured by Alduin. Maro, how likely is it your father would offer a personal apology for Callaina’s treatment? That would go a long way.”

Maro’s expression was troubled. “If this had happened ten years ago, it might have been possible. But now he knows at least one Elder Councillor’s looking at hiring the Dark Brotherhood. Even if we were to convince him Callaina needed to stay alive, he’d have a writ of execution ready for the moment after she defeated this world-eating dragon of yours.”

Tullius swore under his breath. “He’s that bad, Maro?”

The Emperor’s bastard son nodded reluctantly. “He’s that bad.”

“Maro, may I speak bluntly, as a Nord, Legate Primus of Skyrim, someone who knows something about Dragonborn and one of the chosen tutors to the Imperial Heir?” Rikke asked the shorter man.

His mouth tightened. “If you’re going to say our efforts should be more about securing and preserving the Ruby Throne for Akaviria, Akatosh and Stendarr forgive me, but you’re right. I love my father. I know he’s served the Empire as best he can. But he is eighty-three and my daughter is the Empire’s future.”

Rikke closed her eyes and nodded. “That wasn’t it, but it makes my job easier. First things first, I want Irkand sent to Whiterun. He’s one of the few relatives Callaina has positive bonds with and he’s loyal to the Empire.”

“Yes. I can see Bjarni trying to make amends with his sister. What a waste. That boy would have made a fantastic member of the Elder Council,” Maro said with a sigh.

“Balgruuf’s damned neutrality will work against us,” Tullius growled.

“Not if we show respect for Nord traditions. The man… well, we should have offered him the High King’s crown,” Rikke said candidly. “Elisif is a lovely girl who wants to do what is right. But let’s be honest, the Elder Council backed her because they want an Imperialised puppet, not a strong ruler.”

“Elisif’s smarter than you think. It’s only grief and shock that’s made her seem weak,” Maro said quietly.

“That may be but she’ll be seen as an interloper by the Old Holds,” Rikke told him. “She hasn’t even killed an ice wraith. In three of the four Old Holds, you aren’t even allowed to speak at Holdmoot or inherit as an adult until you’ve killed an ice wraith. It’s a custom older than Talos.”

“If I didn’t think the Elder Council would go up in flames, I’d offer Callaina Falkreath Hold or County Bruma, whichever one she preferred,” Tullius said suddenly. “She’s an extraordinary administrator and she has inheritance rights to one and an indirect claim to the other.”

“That was an idea we’d discussed for when Akaviria inherits the Ruby Throne,” Maro admitted. “But… Talos built an empire from Falkreath and Bruma. If I thought there was an oath a woman with a dragon’s soul would keep, I’d still offer it. I have to consider if she decides to go after the Ruby Throne, to which she has a better claim than the Medes.”

“Have Akaviria offer a personal apology as Imperial Heir,” Rikke suggested. “Offer Callaina any and all assistance required to defeat Alduin. Believe me, she’ll need it. Show her the Empire has made mistakes in the past – even she admits Arius brought his fate on himself – but that we can grow and learn. When she defeats the World-Eater, if the Elder Council won’t remove the interdict on her family as a just reward, Akaviria can lean on them to make it happen.”

“The Thalmor may have some objections to that,” Tullius said slowly.

Rikke allowed herself a grim smile. “Leave that to me. We don’t want Elenwen meddling anyway.”


	11. To Be Noble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse/abandonment, torture, imprisonment, alcohol abuse, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict. Poor Callaina.

“I think getting drunk is a valid response to finding out you’re the object of a prophecy that’s needed to save the world,” Irileth said soberly as Balgruuf gently closed the guest room door. “I don’t remember the few days following my trip to the Cavern of the Incarnate myself.”

“It’s more than that,” Balgruuf said, running a hand over his face. The rangy Nord looked ten years older than he had this morning. Irileth didn’t need her mother’s prophetic abilities to know that careworn expression would be common over the next few months. “This is proof that, mad as he was, Arius was right about the Aurelii being Septims. Do the words ‘political shitstorm’ mean anything to you? Because we have an epic one on our hands.”

“I lived through the collapse of the Tribunal and the destruction of Vvardenfell, remember?” Irileth reminded him. “Morrowind has never recovered from what I did.”

“It will, one day,” Balgruuf said wearily.

“You should get some rest,” Irileth advised gently. “Callaina will sleep off her drunkenness.”

“I didn’t think so scrawny a woman had such great capacity,” Balgruuf said wryly as they walked to his bedchamber.

“I suspect that Callaina’s hit the bottle before. Understandable, given the grief of her life, but hopefully not a habit.” Irileth sighed. “Watching the Empire and the Stormcloaks scramble over themselves to offer the biggest apology will be interesting.”

“Interesting? It’s going to be a right royal circus,” Balgruuf answered. “But if they think that an apology will make everything okay, it won’t. Callaina’s wounds run far too deep, from both sides of the conflict, to be healed so easily.”

They reached his door. “But either way, Whiterun will be ready. I’m making Callaina a Thane. She needs the backing and diplomatic immunity. So long as neither side invades my Hold, we can withstand the storm.”

“I’ll increase our border patrols,” Irileth assured him.

Balgruuf smiled. “Thank you, Irileth. Azura light your path.”

“And may she light yours. Good night, Balgruuf.”

…

“One of the new servants? Remember that I like my meat rare.”

Callaina folded her arms and gave the dark-haired girl a frank gaze. Balgruuf had three children, one of them (Nelkir, the oldest) a bastard and the other two to his late wife Svanhild. All three were spoilt, demanding and surly. The Jarl was taken up with his duties and from the looks of it, no one was taking the children in hand. That meant they were brats.

“Dagny,” Lydia said, coming up from behind Callaina. “That’s the Dragonborn – and your father’s newest Thane – you’re calling a servant.”

The girl blinked, then her blue eyes narrowed in calculation. Nelkir was thirteen, Dagny twelve and Frothar nine; Svanhild had died bearing the last one. Callaina knew Balgruuf had cared for his wife and still mourned her.

“I apologise, Dragonborn,” she said with an attempt at a regal nod. “You may withdraw.”

“Dagny,” Lydia said warningly. “As Thane, Callaina is an officer of your father’s court, and stands just below Proventus and Irileth. She’s equal to Uncle Hrongar. That means she’s your superior and you can’t leave without her permission.”

“I… oh…” Dagny stepped back, her expression confused. Callaina continued to study her openly. There was more than brattishness here, she knew it. Nelkir might be as welcome in his presence as the Breton pox, and Frothar seemed more like his warlike uncle Hrongar than his shrewd diplomat of a father, but she’d seen all three behave like children in the Workhouse. Abandoned or orphaned, they acted out, trying to gain some measure of control over their lives.

“When I was a little younger than your brother Frothar, my grandfather rebelled against the Empire and got executed for his troubles,” Callaina finally said. “My father was in another province, and by the end of everything he was exiled, and my mother believed me dead… and then she pretended I was for political purposes. I grew up in the Imperial Workhouse, being told I was traitor’s get, and any time I acted like the noblewoman I had been – I was whipped for arrogance and ingratitude.”

She tilted her head, holding Dagny’s gaze. “Your father’s very busy, I know – and making me Thane will mean he’s all the more busy. That is the burden of a Jarl or a Thane or a Count or maybe even the High King. To be noble is to hold the lives of many in your palm. Some, like my cousin Siddgeir, think it’s their right to wear silk and eat well while their commoners wear rags and eat scraps. Others, like my mother Sigdrifa, think it’s okay to arm the warriors and let everyone else starve and shiver. Your father’s wise and clever, because he helps his people earn coin so that they can pay taxes, which means he can wear silk and eat well while they have enough to eat and even a bit for luxury. What kind of noble do you want to be known as, Dagny? One who complains about not getting a new dress and finding decent sweet rolls, or the daughter of a Jarl who understands everyone is suffering because of the war and remembers that even the lowest servant deserves a civil word? Think on that for a bit.”

“He never has time for us!” Dagny burst out. “Nelkir’s acting all sneaky and sly and Frothar’s always hitting people with things! He used to have time for us but then this stupid war started and it isn’t fair!”

“You’re right, it isn’t fair,” Callaina agreed gently. “But your father does love you. He loves Nelkir and Frothar too. If I remind him to spend a little more time with you, will you at least try to act like an honourable lady of the court instead of a spoilt brat?”

“I don’t know how,” Dagny said weakly.

“You can start with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, even with the servants, and not complaining about your food unless it’s truly awful,” Callaina suggested. “When I am around, I’ll teach you what I know. It’s not as much as I could have known, but at least I know when to curtsey and when not to yell at someone.”

“Okay,” Dagny said, rubbing her nose. “But why do you care?”

“Because I was once a little girl who acted like a brat to get some kind of attention,” Callaina said softly. “I’ve been in your shoes, Dagny. I know you’re not a bad girl, just a neglected one. I’m sure if Nelkir and Frothar have things to do, they’ll improve too.”

Dagny snorted. “Good luck with Nelkir. He thinks he’s better than all of us and he’s a bastard.”

“So am I,” Lydia said mildly. “Remember, bastards are just one step behind legitimate heirs in the line of succession… and if a Holdmoot decides a bastard will make the better Jarl, then the Jarl they become. If something happens to Uncles Balgruuf and Hrongar, they may choose me to be Jarl because I’m an adult and none of you are of an age to rule. Remember that.”

“Okay.” Dagny did an awkward curtsey. “May I please leave, Dragonborn?”

“Go as you wish,” Callaina said with a smile.

The girl left and Lydia whistled through her teeth. “That’s the politest I’ve seen her in a long time.”

“Not all kids are bad. Sometimes they just need a bit of gentle correction and attention.” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose. “Nelkir, though… Nelkir’s going to need some divine intervention. There’s something dark festering in that boy.”

“I’ve noticed it too,” Lydia agreed softly. “Frothar?”

Callaina smiled. “Find him a warrior mentor. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Maybe Uncle Hrongar will take him on. Both of them have too much time on their hands.” Lydia sighed. “Where to now, my Thane?”

“Jorrvaskr. I need to consult with the Companions about what they know concerning dragons. I know more than I want to and less than I need to. Kynareth have mercy on us all.”


	12. The Cost of Security

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, child abandonment, imprisonment, religious conflict, genocide and war crimes.

It had been ten days since Helgen and summer was winding to a close in the golden fields of Whiterun. After the initial shock of the dragons’ return and the attack on the Western Watchtower, life returned to something resembling normal, except that the folk of the Hold knew they lived in extraordinary times – a time of prophecy and portent – and knew that the Dragonborn walked among them. Short and slender – a shade too slender, some remarked – for a Nord, with olive-bronze skin and a raptor’s beak of a nose and the blue-green eyes and black hair of the Kreathling Jarls. Neat and clean, with a golden ring on her left thumb and a plain silver ring on her right middle finger, not given to extravagance in dress or manner. A shrewd woman, light-footed and clever, with some propensity for magic. Daughter and granddaughter of traitors, they said, a survivor of the fall of the Blades. Now Thane of Whiterun, given Balgruuf’s own niece Lydia as a huscarl by the grateful Jarl.

“Kynareth’s winds, how many bandit groups are operating in the Hold?” Callaina asked in disbelief as Ysolda, a sweet-faced redhead, delivered a petition on behalf of the Khajiit caravan leader Ri’saad during the weekly audience Balgruuf gave his folk. “There was that band in Bleak Falls Barrow, I’ve heard of one in White River Watch and another at Valtheim Towers…”

“Five or six, seven if we count the bastards in Embershard Mine who raid into my Hold regularly,” Balgruuf answered her with a grim expression. “Many of them are deserters from the Legion or the Stormcloaks but others are… hmm… how do I put this?”

“Agents provocateur that your mother put in place to undermine Balgruuf’s security and disrupt his supply lines,” Irileth finished darkly. “That makes them more dangerous than a few disgruntled hunters or renegade sellswords.”

“Tal… Tiber Septim’s High Rock campaigns,” Callaina immediately said with a thoughtful expression. “I remember my mother poring over the Blades histories. I think she took his every word and deed as holy gospel.”

“Which, for a Shieldmaiden, it is,” Balgruuf agreed.

The black-haired woman took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I’m guessing the Companions will do nothing?”

“It’s not that they won’t do nothing, it’s just that bandits aren’t considered an extraordinary enough danger for them to act without their typical fees,” Balgruuf told her ruefully. “It costs a thousand septims to hire a pair of Companions – and they always go out in pairs or trios. Unless someone manages to really piss them off, then you’re facing all but the Harbinger, the master of the Skyforge and the Mistress of Jorrvaskr.”

“Kynareth’s winds, nearly three years’ wages for an unskilled worker per job?” Callaina’s expression was shocked. “In the Fighters’ Guild, you could get two for about five hundred!”

“Your average Companion is traditionally expected to face up to nine warriors with only a Shield-Sibling at their back,” Irileth observed. “Believe me, I’ve sparred with them, and even the whelps would be considered officer material in the Legion or the Stormcloaks.”

“I’m guessing I see the problem,” Callaina said with a hint of dryness.

“Indeed, Dragonborn.” Balgruuf rubbed his eyes. Ri’saad and his caravan were one of the few regular traders who dared the Markarth-Whiterun route. If they were scared away because of bandits… “We have a mercenary named Jenassa in Whiterun whose fees are more affordable, but even a former Morag Tong couldn’t take on fifteen or twenty bandits at a go.”

Callaina’s expression grew distant. “I have Lydia. Uthgerd the Unbroken swore she’d follow me in a fight after I punched her in the face at the Bannered Mare last night-“

_“What?”_ Balgruuf roared, startling the Dragonborn. She flinched back, her eyes wide, and began to tremble. But her voice was steady as she responded.

“She challenged me to a fight and Lydia said that I’d look like a coward if I didn’t at least throw a swing. I, well…”

Balgruuf wrestled his temper under control, cursing himself for forgetting that the Dragonborn had likely been yelled at for most of her life. “I’d throw her in jail for the insult if it didn’t sound like you had a plan for her.”

“I didn’t expect her to have a glass jaw or me to land a lucky blow,” Callaina continued, taking a few deep breaths and visibly calming down. “Uthgerd decided she’d follow me. If I include Faendal of Riverwood and we use a lot of sneak and run tactics, we might be able to deal with some of these bandits, starting with Embershard and White River Watch.”

“We don’t have the coin to cover outfitting such a party,” Proventus pointed out.

“Uthgerd, Lydia and Faendal already have their own equipment. I still have money from the Bleak Falls Barrow matter that may be enough to cover this Jenassa,” Callaina said, holding out her palm so that lightning crackled between her fingers. “And I have both magic and the Thu’um. Even one Word will be enough to knock someone arse over tit so that Uthgerd or Lydia can kill them.”

“Callaina,” Balgruuf said slowly. “I would be grateful beyond all words if you did this. But you have little combat experience yourself.”

“I know. I need to gain more,” she responded with a sigh. “I won’t have the Nerevarine, three Companions of Jorrvaskr and fifteen guards at my side the next time I go up against a dragon. Killing bandits is probably the safest way I can get some more experience.”

He nodded. “Very well. As Thane of Whiterun, internal security is one of your duties. Bring me the heads of the chiefs of both bands – though technically Embershard is Siddgeir’s problem-“

“-And he’s been letting bandits prey on his people so long as they give him a cut,” Callaina said grimly. “My grandfather’s a paranoid bastard and my cousin’s a selfish prick. They could elect the contents of my chamber pot to the Stag Throne and it’d be a better Jarl than either of those two.”

“Son of a bitch,” Balgruuf cursed.

“Knowing my cousin, no self-respecting female of the canine persuasion would admit to him being her son,” Callaina drawled.

Balgruuf laughed, nodding in agreement. “Very true. Go forth and bring me back heads, Thane. Ysolda, do you think that will please Ri’saad?”

“It’ll make him feel easier,” the redhead agreed. “Once I get the mammoth tusk, I can give it to him as a gift to become a caravan-partner. Khajiit are very formal about such things.”

“Why can’t Ri’saad present his petition himself?” Callaina asked suddenly. “I’ve not seen any Khajiit in the cities, actually.”

Balgruuf sighed. “It was an edict of High King Istlod, which means until another High King retracts it, it overrides Hold law. Khajiit are forbidden to enter any Hold capital of Skyrim.”

“Lovely,” Callaina observed. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for any mammoth tusks. Faendal mentioned there’s a poacher’s camp in northern Whiterun that might be why that giant attacked Pelagia Farm. If we come across any, I’ll let you know, Ysolda.”

“I’d appreciate that, Thane,” the would-be merchant said gratefully. “But don’t go out of your way.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” Callaina said dryly. “But there’s no reason for the ivory to go to waste either. I have a feeling Whiterun will be able to use what we bring back from the bandit camps.”

“It will,” Balgruuf said fervently. “It will.”


	13. The Stormsword's Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict.

“Embershard Mine’s always been a little iffy because the entrance is in Falkreath and the exit in Riverwood,” Delphine said after Callaina had asked her about the bandit stronghold. “As to who actually owns it, no one’s sure. The iron ore it produces isn’t much better than bog iron, they say, so folks from Helgen or Riverwood just collected some and had it smelted in the Legion smelter at Helgen. Now, of course…”

Callaina nodded with a sigh. “Well, I’ll worry about who owns what later. Balgruuf needs these bandits here and at White River Watch dead to secure the southern and eastern trade routes.”

“I don’t doubt it’s important, but shouldn’t the dragons be your priority?” Delphine asked. “I think the next resurrection’s going to be at Kynesgrove in Eastmarch.”

“I need combat experience,” Callaina admitted with another sigh. “I won’t have as many guards at my back with the next dragon.”

“That makes sense. I can’t just pick up and join you. There’s a lot more Legion and Stormcloak couriers on the roads lately.” Delphine smiled thinly. “I got a Stormcloak drunk and he said Sigdrifa swore herself blue-faced when she found out who the Dragonborn was.”

“I wondered what that shrieking from the east was,” Callaina said wryly. “No wonder it was so familiar.”

She clasped Delphine’s forearm. “Once I’ve killed every bandit in Whiterun, I’ll make time to go to High Hrothgar. I know, I know, they’re isolationists at best… But they know more about the Thu’um than anyone else in Tamriel.”

Delphine winced. “I suppose you’re right. Hold that thought. I’ve got something that’ll endear you to them.”

That ‘something’ was an ivory warhorn and a charcoal etching of a Word that Callaina translated as ‘Feim’, or ‘Fade’.

“Once you go up to High Hrothgar and meet them, they’ll make you trudge to Hjaalmarch, desecrate the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller, and deliver the horn to their hands as some test of worthiness,” Delphine explained as she thrust them into Callaina’s hands. “Use that time to do something actually useful like go up to Kynesgrove and investigate the dragon mound. Dragons aren’t coming back, Callaina. They’re being resurrected.”

“Thank you,” Callaina said softly. Then she tucked the horn and etching into her beltpouch. “Delphine… The Blades, as they were, are gone. By the end, they were terrified yes-folk who died fruitlessly because they obeyed Arius too much.”

“I know,” Delphine said grimly. “We got so caught up in serving the Dragonborn that we forgot we were once dragon-hunters. If I’m the last of them, then I will bring every dragon to justice.”

“If a dragon surrenders, recognises me as Thuri, I will spare them,” Callaina said softly. “I’m not into genocide. If a dragon does no harm, no harm will come to it. That is the only command – besides ‘don’t piss off the Thalmor because we don’t have the capacity to win that fight yet – that I will give you as Dragonborn.”

“Look, that sounds noble and all, but every dragon – even Paarthurnax – has committed atrocities against humanity,” Delphine countered reasonably.

“So did every Blade. None of us have clean hands, either through action or apathy. If you’re not going to be held accountable for Falinesti, who am I to pass judgment on the dragon who eventually gave humanity the means to fight Alduin?” Callaina arched her eyebrows at Delphine. “Remember, I’m the only one who can make a dragon permanently dead, and you’re going to find it hard to execute dragons without me.”

“Damn a Dragonborn who knows our history,” Delphine said with a sigh.

“I hope not. It’ll be harder to kill Alduin from Oblivion.”

…

“That looks like Hajvarr Ironhand,” Ralof remarked, looking at the heads piked at the crossroads. “He went rogue and set up at White River Watch.”

“Bandit, bandit, bandit, bandit…” Bjarni studied the rune carved into the forehead of each head. “And for some variety, more bandits!”

“Each of them’s the head of a bandit chief,” said the saffron-wrapped guard at the crossroads. “The Dragonborn and her followers have been clearing out the bandit camps and securing the trade routes. So I don’t recommend raiding, Stormcloaks, or your head will wind up here too.”

“We’ll pass the word on,” Bjarni said fervently. Talos have mercy, the stories of Dragonborn amassing power, influence and followers didn’t do the reality justice. Two weeks ago, Callaina was a downtrodden Imperial bureaucrat. Now she was Thane of Whiterun and leading a warband that regularly purged large bandit groups. If she got it in her head to become High Queen or Empress…

But they had a diplomatic mission to achieve. “We’re here to speak to her,” Bjarni admitted. “Diplomatic duty, no more, no less.”

“Flouting Balgruuf’s order of exile by bringing Ralof?” the guard asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I tried to leave him at home but he kept on following me,” Bjarni said dryly.

“Yes, because the other option was letting you wander around unsupervised,” Ralof laughed.

“Fine. But we’ll be watching you,” the guard warned.

Much to Bjarni’s surprise, there was a Khajiit caravan camped outside, and both his half-sister and Balgruuf themselves were speaking to Ri’saad as they all sat cross-legged on a rug worth every firstborn child’s wergild in Eastmarch. She’d filled out a bit in the past two weeks and a circlet of orichalcum and emeralds held back her long black hair. Even from here, he could see the enchantments on it.

_Speech and… a combined magicka replenishment and Destruction enchantment,_ he realised. _Good choice for a woman who backs up her talk with a firebolt._

“That is why this one wished to be friends with Ysolda,” the old Khajiit was saying as they neared, smiling to a pretty red-haired woman in a blue dress sitting next to him. “Khajiit of this one’s caravans will not violate Nord law, however… inconvenient… it may be.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Balgruuf replied. “Ysolda will be Whiterun’s official agent. All business between your caravan – when camped at this site – and my people must go through her.”

“Ri’saad will give her… hmm… five percent of every deal,” the Khajiit promised.

“No skooma or black soul gems and moon sugar only to a licenced alchemist or mage,” Balgruuf decreed. “I don’t care what you sell outside my Hold. But I do have my limits within it.”

“Of course, Jarl Balgruuf,” Ri’saad agreed.

“Tax is ten percent or fifty septims per day’s trading, whatever is highest,” Balgruuf continued. “I know that seems a little exorbitant, but I have walls in need of repairing, roads that are falling to wrack and ruin, and a lack of guards to make them safe. I take septims, goods or service as payment.”

“This one has some fine rugs,” Ri’saad suggested slyly.

Balgruuf sighed wistfully. “In better times, I’d take it. But my people need potions, food and crafting materials. Money would be best but potions at half-market value, food at one fifth and crafting materials at one third will be accepted.”

“Preferably healing and stamina potions,” Callaina suggested in her low warm voice. “Fire and frost resistance ones would be good too. Some dragons breathe ice instead of flame.”

“Doable. Atahbah is a skilled alchemist.” The Khajiit extended his hand. “We are agreed?”

Balgruuf shook it. “Aye, we are. As a token of my appreciation, when you come here next, there will be some improvement to the site.”

“This one is grateful,” Ri’saad said with a Khajiit bow. Then his eyes picked up Bjarni and Ralof. “I see another friend of the caravans has come to pay a call.”

“Warm sands and bright moons,” Bjarni said in Ta’agra with the same bow, fingers touching his heart and between his eyes. “We come in peace on a diplomatic mission.”

“You have never brought trouble to our caravans or camps,” Ri’saad assured him.

“He’s referring to us,” Balgruuf said, rising to his feet and helping Callaina up, Ysolda and Ri’saad following suit. “I don’t see an axe beyond the one on your belt.”

“My parents are many things, but stupid isn’t one of them,” Bjarni pointed out. “Delivering an axe could be seen as a provocation and believe me, none of us want to provoke the Dragonborn.”

“All Nords carry an axe,” Ri’saad observed. “What makes giving one different?”

_Clever cat, defusing the tension,_ Bjarni thought admiringly. “Exchanging weapons is something else. If I were to give Balgruuf an axe, as a messenger of my father Jarl Ulfric, it is essentially forcing him to make a choice: keep the axe and therefore be Eastmarch’s ally… or return it and declare himself an enemy of the Stormcloaks.”

“Was this Ulfric’s idea?” Balgruuf asked bluntly after exchanging glances with Callaina.

“Mine,” Bjarni admitted. “Look, Callaina, I will begin with a personal apology for insulting you at Helgen. Calling you a spineless puppet was dishonourable, given that you survived a lot of abuse from the Empire. You did what you had to and well…”

“I’m a broken blade,” she confessed with a shrug. “I stood by and watched atrocities because the other option was to die and to be honest, my only goal at times was to outlive Mede, Mother and every other bastard in the world. Now, I’m the Dragonborn, may Kynareth have mercy on us all.”

“Whatever you need to defeat the dragons, Dragonborn, ask in the Old Holds and it is yours,” promised Ralof. “The only thing we ask in return is that you don’t turn your Voice against us. If we must fall to the Empire, let them earn the victory, not break the last spirit of the Nords by turning the power of the Stormcrown on us. However justified that may be.”

“Don’t threaten me and don’t threaten Whiterun and we have a deal,” Callaina promised softly. “Tullius is a competent enough general that he probably won’t need me to win.”

“And what if we should win?” Bjarni asked. “You give us short shrift, sister.”

“I personally think neither Mother nor Ulfric should be anywhere near the High King’s throne,” Callaina said bluntly. “Deeds are done once and then are done with but a task is repetitious. How would they cope with administration and arbitration? I hear Mother let dozens of Argonians and Dunmer starve and freeze to death during the regency of Eastmarch because she gave all the food and fuel to the army, then the Nords. Ulfric lets bandits prey on non-Nords, makes the Argonians live in a warehouse and treats the Dunmer like they’re shit under his boot. Let’s not mention the Markarth Incident, where Mother committed kinslaughter and Ulfric genocide. How would they be better than the Empire?”

She held up a hand as Bjarni opened his mouth. “The Empire has committed atrocities too. The Blades and the Thalmor committed atrocities on each other. Men and mer, since time began and probably a little bit before, have attacked and betrayed and lied and killed. Even Shor was betrayer and betrayed in the Annaud. Tell me, and tell me truly, how Skyrim would be better off under the rule of your parents? At least I know what would happen under the Empire. More people of all races would benefit, even if the cost of that was a god and a culture.”

“Dragonborn. You can’t say that,” Ralof said, his voice shaken. “You can’t mean that. I look at Bruma and I see the future of my country if we fail. I see my mother on a cross, my sword-siblings in chains, Thalmor boots stamping on a Nord face forever.”

_“And I lived that.”_ Callaina’s voice, for the first time, showed the ragged edge of the Thu’um as thunder rumbled under a clear sky. _“My_ mother _left me to it, knowing full well what my fate was, and did nothing once she had the power to do so.”_

Balgruuf took her hand, squeezing sympathetically, mouth tight. “Sigdrifa didn’t send an apology, did she, Bjarni?”

“No,” Bjarni admitted with a shudder. “She said it was obviously the will of Talos that you be made strong as the Dragonborn.”

“I didn’t need to be strong, Bjarni. I needed to be protected.” Callaina inhaled shakily. “How was she as a mother to you?”

He glanced away. “Ralof and Galmar more or less raised me and Egil. Father did what he could… but the cause always came first.”

“It always has,” Callaina said softly. “I won’t raise my hand or voice to you unless you’re stupid enough to attack me or Whiterun. But I don’t think there’s a wergild or an apology that could make up for how I was treated.”

“Not unless you declared your mother nithing and threw her into the sea,” Balgruuf said grimly. “That’s the old punishment for one who has betrayed her kin so repeatedly, so deeply and so finally.”

“I don’t understand-“ Bjarni began.

“If you have the courage, go to Glenmoril,” Callaina whispered. “You have a grandmother and a granduncle who were betrayed by their own kinswoman during the Markarth Incident. Go to Glenmoril… and ask for Catriona.”

She turned away. “Then come back and tell me again how Ulfric and Sigdrifa would be good rulers of Skyrim.”


	14. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of implied sexual activity, child abuse, imprisonment, war crimes, torture and religious conflict.

It had been a long time since another had shared his bed. Three or four years, in fact, when he and Irileth slept together one night after a feast, confirming that they were better off as friends. A long time since he had a soft warm weight next to him.

Balgruuf sat up, raking his hair from his eyes, and glanced in Callaina’s direction. She slept on the side, slightly curled, taking up as little space as possible. He remembered her saying she was used to hard narrow beds and pallets in the cheap inns or boarding houses that were all she could afford. There were a couple faded scars on her back, thick keloid welts that could only come from a cane. Well, she told Dagny that she’d been beaten in the Imperial Workhouse.

A flash of anger passed through him, shocking in its heat. Balgruuf was a man who prided himself on maintaining internal calm, even as he blustered and thundered as was expected of a Nord Jarl. The waste and the wilful cruelty of the Empire, the abandonment and abuse of the Stormcloaks, towards the woman who held the fate of the world in her hands was enough to incite rage in even a Priest of Mara. That she didn’t seek vengeance spoke either of a great heart or a half-broken soul and Balgruuf didn’t doubt that she possessed both.

It was still predawn, the world painted in shades of grey, and the servants would be preparing breakfast in the Great Hall below. Proventus would be eating early, as to complete his bookkeeping before their daily meeting, and Irileth would already be drilling guards in the practice ring. Nelkir wouldn’t get up until three hours past dawn because he slunk around at night; Balgruuf needed to take him down to the Temple of Kynareth and have Danica examine him, because the boy looked sickly and pale. Dagny would wear three dresses before deciding on the first; Frothar would run around, slaying invisible monsters in a child’s idea of glorious battle.

Callaina gasped and by the time Balgruuf turned to her, she was sitting up, pushing her tangled black hair away from her face. “What time is it?” she asked.

“About an hour until dawn,” Balgruuf assured her.

She nodded, rubbing her forehead. “I slept in, dammit.”

“What time do you usually get up?” he asked curiously.

“Two hours before dawn, so I can get in some breakfast before starting work.” She swung her legs around, her back to Balgruuf. “I… Thank you, Balgruuf. I needed a friend last night.”

“It was my pleasure,” he told her in all sincerity. “I think we both needed the comfort last night.”

“I suppose we did.” Callaina sighed deeply. “It was… pleasant. I’m sorry, I’m… not used to this.”

“A beautiful woman such as yourself?” Balgruuf asked in surprise.

She looked over her shoulder, smiling, and the expression took her face from attractive to stunning. “Sweet-talker.”

“It’s true,” he said firmly. “I’m guessing politics had something to do with your, ah, lack of company?”

“Politics and preference,” Callaina admitted with a shrug. “Few decent folks wanted to marry the last of the Aurelii, those that did were driven off by the scrutiny of the Penitus Oculatus, and those who weren’t bothered by either weren’t usually to my taste. My longest relationship was a three-week fling with an Altmer Legate and that was because Fasendil and I both felt like irritating Nurancar the Younger more than romantic feelings.”

Balgruuf chuckled wryly to conceal another flash of anger at the deliberate cruelty of the Elder Council. “Fasendil? I think he was assigned to Skyrim a couple years ago. Do I need to fear you running off to a handsome Legate because if you think the Thalmor would be irritated, how do you think your mother would react?”

“He’s in the Rift. He knew that the Thalmor were planning something when they sent Elenwen, the woman who broke and tortured Ulfric, to Skyrim. Tullius agreed.” Callaina rose to her feet in one lithe movement. “I need to go to High Hrothgar. Delphine tells me that the next dragon resurrection will be in Kynesgrove, which is in Eastmarch, but I need the wisdom of the Greybeards before I confront another dragon.”

“Delphine still pretending she’s a simple innkeeper?” Balgruuf asked amusedly.

“Of course you knew she was a Blade.” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t risk her being discovered by the Thalmor. Even after Northwatch Keep, Elenwen’s still got a workable apparatus, and I can’t afford to lose Delphine.”

“I’ve kept the Thalmor from my Hold before,” Balgruuf assured her. “Will you be taking Lydia?”

“Lydia, Uthgerd and Jenassa,” she confirmed, pouring some water from the ewer into a cloth and beginning to clean herself. “Faendal doesn’t want to travel far from Riverwood, though he’s promised to show me the way to Haemar’s Pass on the border of Falkreath and the Rift.”

“Good,” Balgruuf breathed. “Good…”

He stood up and reached for a robe. “Callaina. Come back to me… to Whiterun.”

She looked at him and nodded. “I will. I promise.”


	15. It's Under Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

Ivarstead was a pleasant little village located in the shadow of the Throat of the World, consisting of a pub, a farm, a lumber mill and a couple bored guards in the Rift’s faded purple. Callaina felt the eyes of the locals on her as she, Jenassa, Lydia and Uthgerd jumped from the carriage they’d caught from Whiterun, tugging at the enchanted clothing Balgruuf had given her yesterday morning. _“Mage robes would be too obvious,”_ he’d explained as he handed over the cotton shift and dress and mantle of fine goat’s wool. _“But plain clothing would stick out like a sore thumb with the retinue you have. Wear this and you’ll look like the Thane you are.”_

Callaina had to agree that the Jarl knew more about appearances than she did, so she donned the garb of cream-coloured shift, tawny-yellow dress with pale green-and-blue embroidery and a mantle of deepest saffron held together with an ornate bronze pin in the shape of Whiterun’s rearing horse. The jade and emerald circlet kept her black hair back and the two rings on her fingers seemed more appropriate. She twisted the Jewel of the Rumare on her thumb and wondered if the Greybeards would be impressed.

“So this is the Throat of the World,” Jenassa said as she glanced up. “Pity the path didn’t start in Whiterun.”

“The next time I talk to Kynareth, I’ll ask her why the gods didn’t give us wings,” Callaina said wryly. “You don’t need to climb the seven thousand steps if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are my patron, one with an appreciation for my art and a refreshing amount of common sense for a Nord. Of course I’ll climb the seven thousand steps with you.”

The Vilemyr Inn was a cosy little place that was only a little more rundown than the Sleeping Giant, which put it about three steps above the Restful Watchman in Bruma. Its owner, Wilhelm, was only too pleased to rent rooms to the Dragonborn and her entourage, practically falling over himself to provide the finest food and drink until Callaina told him that whatever he served up to the locals was good enough for them.

“I wish I could give you three rooms, my lady, but I rented one out to some Redguard yesterday afternoon,” he said apologetically.

“I can share a room with my huscarl,” Callaina assured him. “Jenassa and Uthgerd will share the other.”

“Of course, of course.” Wilhelm smiled. “If you need anything, let me know. It’s a great honour to have you here.”

Callaina was enjoying a meal of venison stew and Alto wine when the Redguard entered the pub. Athletic, with iron-grey braids that fell to the middle of his back, his light chainmail was black-stained and his weapon a dragonbone naginata. He threw the severed head of a Dunmer onto the bar. “There’s your ghost,” he told Wilhelm. “Daft bastard took some uncanny potion to make you all think he was a ghost, then he went made from it.”

“By the Nine,” Wilhelm breathed. “He tried to get into the deeper tomb, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. Short of the Skeleton Key or the dragon claw, there’s very ways to get past a puzzle door.” He accepted a foaming tankard of ale from the innkeep, drinking deeply. “Temba’s got her bear hides and the ghost is dealt with. Anything else need doing before I head back to Falkreath?”

“No, no. You’ve done enough.” Wilhelm smiled broadly. “We have the Dragonborn staying here tonight.”

“Is that so?” He finished his ale.

Callaina caught a good glimpse of his face and swallowed a groan. Older, more scars, but it was definitely her father.

“If you need someone to kill dragons, Rustem’s worth the coin,” Wilhelm told her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said ironically.

Rustem’s mouth curled into an equally ironic smile as he paid for his ale, then went into his room.

Callaina sighed. More complications. Did Aurelia and Martin have to deal with this level of shit during the Oblivion Crisis? She rather doubted it.

…

“Cribbing from Sigdrifa?”

Rustem kept an easy grip on his naginata as the petitioner lowered her hood, revealing a square-jawed, square-shouldered woman in Legion heavy armour that made her seem even more square. Rikke Snow-Stone was taller than him and had enough muscle to rival Arnbjorn, but she lacked the febrile fanaticism of her fellow Shieldmaiden Sigdrifa. No, she was dangerous in an entirely new way – she was competent.

“I know you’re going to kill the Emperor. And personally, the Empire will be better for it,” she answered candidly. “But since you’re going to disrupt the Empire, I might as well make you useful.”

**_She wants you to kill Sigdrifa_** _,_ observed the Night Mother.

_I’d do that for free._

“So,” he said with a broad smile. “Apart from Sigdrifa, who did you want dead?”

…

“Hmmph. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.”

Vilkas was leanly muscular, with the kind of smouldering iron-grey gaze that promised intense passions, and the kind of surly temperament that brought out the urge to smack him in his sensuous mouth.

“Sometimes, the famous come to us. Sometimes, others come to seek their fame. It makes no difference,” Kodlak chided in the tone of a long-suffering father. “What matters is their heart.”

“And their arm,” Vilkas pointed out.

“Of course.” Kodlak fixed Irkand with a stern rain-grey gaze. “How skilled are you in battle?”

“My name is Irkand Aurelius,” he said simply. “I have slain innumerable foes.”

“By stealth,” Vilkas said sourly. “Have you ever faced an enemy openly?”

“If you doubt my skill and courage, we can discuss it in the battle-circle,” Irkand answered with a smile. “I would take very great pleasure in wiping that frown from your face.”

“Vilkas and Irkand?” observed Skjor in the next room. “This I have to see.”

“Do it! Do it!” urged the behemoth that was Farkas.

“Then let me be the judge of that.” Kodlak rose stiffly to his feet. “It should be interesting to see an Aurelii in open battle.”

“Hey, Callaina’s got courage!” Farkas protested. “She faced a giant an’ a dragon!”

“No one doubts the courage of the Dragonborn,” Kodlak assured him. “But it must be agreed that most of the Aurelii prefer stealth and murder to honourable combat.”

“Rustem faces his enemies openly,” Skjor observed. “Sure, he’s a ruthless killer, but he’s courageous.”

“Remind me why this was a good idea?” Irkand muttered to Skjor as they headed upstairs. “I don’t need to be judged by some muscle-bound moron as to my tactics when facing an enemy who could stuff my soul into a black soul gem!”

“Because as a Companion, you can go to any Hold in the province and not be detained,” Skjor murmured in reply. “Admit it, Irkand, facing your enemies in open battle will be a new and exciting experience!”

“I’m wishing I stabbed you twenty-eight years ago,” Irkand grumbled, earning a laugh from the big warrior.

“Besides, Vilkas needs a dose of humility,” Skjor continued with a grin. “If you can’t give it to him, no one can.”

“I could make it my life’s work to feed him humble pie,” Irkand observed. “Obnoxious little bastard, isn’t he?”

“I’m taller than you,” Vilkas shot back.

“Only because Farkas decided being seven feet was tall enough, so he gave a few inches to you out of pity,” Irkand said dryly.

The battle-circle was located in the back courtyard, where four whelps were training with bows under Aela’s critical eye. Akaviria had developed more muscle over the past couple years and handled her bow well.

“Whelps!” Skjor bellowed. “We have ourselves a match between Irkand Aurelius and Vilkas of the Hero-Twins!”

“Ria says you killed twenty necromancers in one night,” said the white-haired Nord girl. “Even Sigdrifa concedes you’re very good at what you do.”

“I wish I could say the same about her,” Irkand said mildly.

The Dunmer burst out laughing. “Oh, I like you.”

“He taught me how to use knives,” Ria said chirpily.

They gathered in a loose circle as Irkand and Vilkas stepped in, practice blades in hand. Interestingly enough, the arms master of the Companions also wielded a shield. “Come at me and show me what you can do,” the Hero-Twin taunted. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

“No magic, no dirt in the eyes, no groin blows or strikes to the face,” Skjor advised.

_Thanks for taking the fun out of it,_ Irkand thought sourly.

They circled each other warily, eyes intent, and Irkand quickly realised Vilkas was both impatient and foul-tempered. Well then, he could be patient.

“What are you, scared?” Vilkas asked after a couple minutes.

“No, not really. You’re not the first big handsome moron I’ve faced in a fight,” Irkand retorted sweetly.

“Ooh, he thinks Vilkas is handsome!” Farkas said with a grin.

“Irkand’s always been a sucker for big handsome morons,” Skjor agreed laughingly. “I’d have introduced him to you, Farkas, except you prefer women.”

“Are you really trying to hook up Vilkas and Irkand?” Ria asked in disbelief. “There isn’t a bed big enough to fit them _and_ their egos in Jorrvaskr.”

“Kiss already!” bellowed the blond Nord drunkenly.

“Shut up, Torvar!” Vilkas snapped, glaring at the whelp.

The moment he took his eyes off Irkand, the Redguard struck, aiming for his stomach with his knee. But Vilkas, even distracted, moved with blinding speed and shoved him back with the shield. Irkand swore in pain as his kneecap met several pounds of steel-reinforced wood.

The white-haired girl burst out laughing. “It only took me two weeks to teach Vilkas that move!”

Irkand staggered back and Vilkas closed in, practice blade a blur as it went for the ribs. He deflected the blow with his bracered forearm, then trapped the blade between arm and side, pulling Vilkas down with him. Before the Nord could even react, Irkand’s other practice blade was at his throat.

“Yield?” Irkand asked in between gasps of pain. Gods, he wasn’t as spry as he once was.

“Fuck you!” Vilkas grated.

“Buy him dinner first and he might!” yelled Skjor with a laugh.

“I’m not that fucking easy!” Irkand retorted.

“I yield,” Vilkas growled. “Just so I can go punch Skjor in the face.”

“Yield is accepted.” Irkand rolled off Vilkas and lay on the dirt, panting. “Ow, my fucking knee.”

Ria came over to help him to his feet. “It’s good to see you,” she said in a low voice.

“Tullius put in the request,” Irkand admitted, groaning as he stood up. “How is she?”

“Effective. I think my grandfather, much as I love him, made a bad choice in not treating her decently. If she were to claim her blood rights…” Ria glanced around nervously. “Balgruuf’s courting her, I think. That man’s too shrewd not to. Even if she’s interdicted, her children could stand to inherit Falkreath through him under Nord law, because a Jarl’s children stand ahead of a Jarl’s grandchildren even if they’re from different Holds.”

“Is there any reason why she should still be interdicted? Balgruuf could be persuaded to the Imperial side, I think. Ulfric and Sigdrifa would be absolute disasters as rulers.”

“Oh, Callaina chewed her brother Bjarni out and sent him to Glenmoril. Did you know Sigdrifa’s part-Reacher?” Ria sighed and ran a hand over her eyes.

“I know for a fact that Sigdrifa’s mother is a Hagraven,” Irkand said dryly. “Even the Hagraven’s disgusted with her.”

“We might be able to salvage Bjarni if he’s swayed from his parents’ side,” Ria said in relief. “I’m due for my Proving soon. Once that’s done, I’m going to Solitude to oversee things personally.”

“Is that safe? Motierre’s in Skyrim and I’m pretty sure he’ll call on the Dark Brotherhood-“

“I know. Akatosh forgive me, I know. Vittoria was murdered a few days ago at her wedding.” Ria’s expression was grim. “Motierre assumes I am stupid. I intend to show him I’m wrong.”

“But what about Callaina?” Irkand asked softly. “The interdict-“

“I’m going to leave well enough alone for now. Rikke and Tullius assure me it’s all under control.”

“I hope you’re right.”


	16. A Grandmother's Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, child abuse, religious conflict, imprisonment and genocide. Poor Bjarni.

“Stop right there, Nord, or I’ll have you feathered with arrows!”

Bjarni held up his hands as a Forsworn, lithe and with a crest of brown hair, emerged from the shadows of Glenmoril Cavern with three more of her kind – all armed with the powerful Reacher longbow. One fired, the arrow quivering in the tree trunk right by Bjarni’s ear, and he lowered his hands again.

“He’s a Nord, Siobhan, I doubt he’s going to cast,” muttered the brown-crested Breton to her friend.

“Open hands mean hostility,” she retorted. “I’d rather just kill him and be done with it.”

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Ralof muttered. “We’ll die and never see Sovngarde.”

“My name is Bjarni and I was bidden to seek Catriona of Glenmoril by Callaina Broken-Blade, the Last Dragonborn!” Bjarni called out, his voice cracking. He was scared. And there was no shame in admitting it.

“Gods of Right and Left,” swore Siobhan. “Kaie…?”

“Stay there,” Kaie ordered. “Keep your hands away from your weapons or packs. I have to speak to the Matriarch.”

It was an uncomfortable quarter-hour or so, Siobhan and the other Forsworn glaring at Bjarni and Ralof. “Who’s Callaina when she’s at home and why would Matriarch Catriona listen to some Nord using her name?” the scrawny little Breton demanded.

“Talos have mercy, your grandmother’s a Hagraven,” Ralof breathed to Bjarni. Then he cracked a wry smile. “It certainly explains your mother.”

“Don’t insult the Matriarch by comparing her to her traitorous get!” snapped Siobhan. “Catriona made her mistakes, aye, but she never harmed kith or kin!”

“To answer your question, Lady Siobhan, Callaina is Catriona’s firstborn granddaughter and the one destined to face Alduin to save the world from destruction. She told me to come here, to learn more of my family’s history,” Bjarni told her politely. “Yes, I’m the son of Ulfric, and aye, I know what he and my mother did in the Reach was wrong. Even though I agree with the Stormcloak cause, I know it was wrong what happened to your folk. We should have supported you, not served Imperial interests.”

“Alduin himself is a-flying about?” asked one of the other Forsworn, a scrawny lad.

“Aye. I don’t envy my sister her task.”

“If it comes to it, I’ll kill you and your friend cleanly,” Siobhan said. “No soul trapping.”

“You won’t be killing them at all, Siobhan mac Fianche.” Kaie returned with a creature that was taller than the usual Hagraven, the Daedric twisting of natural form not quite erasing the spare-boned build and grey-streaked black hair Bjarni knew so well. To look upon Catriona was to see the mother of the Stormsword. “Grandaunt’s agreed to talk to him.”

“Since you three feel like shooting something and we have a shortage of meat, go hunt some deer,” Catriona suggested in a croaking soprano.

“Try up near Fort Sungard,” Ralof advised. “Always been a good run up there.” “Want to tell me how to steal eggs, Nord?” Siobhan retorted. “That’s part of Lost Valley’s old lands.”

The trio left and Bjarni allowed himself to sigh openly in relief.

“Bjarni Storm-Born and Ralof Storm-Hammer,” Kaie observed. “If Ulfric knew you two were being civil to Forsworn, he’d pike your heads at Windhelm’s gates, son and hearthman or no.”

“So… Grandma.” Gods above, this was awkward. “Callaina sent me.”

“So Kaie said. After I failed in Markarth, I was exiled to Glenmoril, and when I scried my bloodline I found out I had a granddaughter in Bruma. I didn’t have the power to smuggle her out, not with all those Penitus Oculatus agents watching, but I could give her some of her history and the strength to survive. And now she fights Alduin himself.” Catriona sighed.

“Siobhan said you’d made mistakes, ma’am,” Ralof said soberly as Bjarni struggled to find words.

“Three Stormcloaks marched on the Mournful Throne – a Shieldmaiden, a huscarl and a Tongue,” Catriona confirmed. “Madanach had the magic to hold off two, but the Shieldmaiden went forth, because she had some magic resistance from the Reacher blood. One fireball… I could have ended it. But I saw my own face and couldn’t make myself do so.”

“You were a true Nord,” Ralof said softly. “I know that won’t mean much coming from one of Ulfric’s hearthmen, but…”

“Ulfric and Galmar were no different to any other lowlander filth,” Catriona continued with a sigh. “But Sigdrifa was of our blood. She was meant to be the one who united Reacher and lowlander Nord. If things had gone as me and Madanach planned, when his father Feredach asked his Nord sister Fereda to send a daughter to Dengeir of Stuhn as bride, she’d have been a Jarl. But…”

“But Dengeir held to the old tradition of the Kreathling Jarls, where the firstborn daughter was sent to the Shieldmaidens at Yngvild,” Bjarni finished hoarsely.

“I asked him not to. I begged him. Sigdrifa was so sickly as a child and…” Catriona wiped her eyes. “He told me that he’d save her from her heathen blood and if I didn’t like it, go back to the hills whence I came. I laid a curse on him and tried to follow the Shieldmaidens to Yngvild, but most of them knew how to use magic and fight back. By the time I returned to Falkreath, to try and rescue my sons, they were already dead because Dengeir sent two adolescent boys to kill a goddamn vampire. So I cursed him again and went back to my kin in Lost Valley.”

“I think we can all agree Dengeir’s a right bastard,” Ralof said, shaken. “Did you ever try to tell Sigdrifa?”

“Once, when she and two other Shieldmaiden apprentices went skiing. She threw a lightning bolt at me, even though I wasn’t a Hagraven then, and said she belonged to Talos.” Catriona’s smile was cold. “I used my knowledge of the Clever Craft to destroy the defences concealing Yngvild once I knew my daughter had left, then came back to dedicate myself to Hircine and the freedom of the Reach.”

“The Thalmor destroyed the Shieldmaidens!” Ralof exclaimed. “Fifty women died screaming!”

“And they didn’t scream enough before the end!” Catriona roared in fury. “They took my daughter and made her a monster!”

Bjarni, for the first time in his life since he was a boy, burst into tears. How else could he respond to… everything?

Catriona leapt down from the rock and embraced Bjarni before Ralof could even reach for his weapon. For the first time since he was a boy, he had someone give him a hug and tell him it would be okay, that there was nothing wrong with him weeping.

“I’m sorry, lad,” she murmured into his hair. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“When the Hagraven shows more decency than the Shieldmaiden…” Ralof said, shaken.

“Grandaunt Catriona’s always had a great heart. It’s been her downfall more than once,” Kaie said soberly.

“What do we do now?”

“I suppose that’s up to you now, lowlander.”


	17. The Turning of the Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“So... a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

Callaina didn’t respond to the Greybeard who could apparently talk at a normal volume without shaking a building apart, instead looking around at the sparse interior of High Hrothgar as three others filed in. All wore grey homespun robes trimmed with hawk feathers, all lived up to their name, and all regarded her with some doubt. She supposed Lydia or Uthgerd looked more like the stereotypical hero of Nord legend than she did.

“We will see if you truly have the gift,” the first said gravely as the others surrounded her. “Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice.”

“FUS!” Callaina roared, staggering him.

“Dragonborn. It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar.” He bowed, a gesture echoed by the others. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now, tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

“Because if I don’t, Alduin will destroy us all,” she said softly.

“We are honoured to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny,” he replied. “You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen.”

He nodded to the others. “Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout. Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power.”

“Three Words of Power to a Shout, right?” she asked as one of the Greybeards stepped forth.

Arngeir paused. “Yes, that is correct.”

“I might as well be upfront with you. I was a Blades initiate as a child and listened to the master of dragonlore. I don’t claim to know everything about dragons, but I’m not entirely ignorant either,” Callaina admitted.

The Greybeard’s expression grew frosty. “The Blades never followed the path of wisdom and so they died for it.”

“I don’t give a damn who was right or wrong when it came to Talos,” Callaina told him. “I’ve told you this in the spirit of transparency, not because I want to rehash a centuries-old feud. _I survived Cloud Ruler Temple._ I will listen to your wisdom, but I don’t need some cloistered monk telling me the people I knew as a child deserved to die horribly. Understood?”

Arngeir flushed. “You are correct, Dragonborn. I know more about the Blades than you realise and how far they fell. But…”

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, all Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you ‘Ro’ the second Word in Unrelenting Force. Ro means ‘Balance’ in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus – ‘Force’ - to focus your Thu'um more sharply.”

Einarth, shorter and more wiry, stepped forth and spoke the Word into the stone at Callaina’s feet. She paused, absorbed its meaning, and watched the glow die away but the etching remain.

“You learn a new word like a master... you truly do have the gift. But learning a Word of Power is only the first step... you must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts. As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly. As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of ‘Ro’.”

Arngeir’s voice was awed as Einarth began to glow, contrails of power like those that came from a dragon when it died emerging, only to be absorbed by Callaina. Her understanding of balance grew as she realised that force was both pushing and pulling in nature, even down to the little pieces too small for the naked eye to see.

“Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use your Unrelenting Force shout to strike the targets as they appear,” Arngeir ordered.

Callaina obeyed and the sharp force of the Shout scattered the decoys projected by the Greybeards.

“Impressive. Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri.”

She followed. How many trials did they have?

…

“That’s the Aalto,” said Uthgerd, shading her eyes with her hand as they looked out over the volcanic tundra. “Beyond it is the permafrost and Windhelm.”

“Well, Kynesgrove is where the next dragon’s going to be resurrected,” the Dragonborn said serenely. “We might as well go there.”

The woman who called herself Unbroken looked sideways at the shorter woman. Callaina had changed the elaborate garb Balgruuf gave her for a plain purple dress and green shift, only the jade circlet and enchanted rings indicative of her status, and tied back her black hair with a leather thong. Still a little too thin for a Nord, she’d gained much in confidence and self-possession over the past few weeks. And she packed a mean right hook.

“There’s at least one dragon on the tundra,” reported Jenassa. “Do you think we four can take it?”

“Honestly, no,” Callaina said after a moment’s thought. “I’d want another archer or battlemage to help me strike it from a distance.”

“If you don’t mind a trip to Riften, there’s a Cyrod battlemage named Marcurio who works down that way,” Jenassa suggested. “I’ve done jobs with him before. He’s young but competent.”

“Standard fee?” Callaina asked.

“Yes. It’s the minimum set by Skyrim’s laws.”

The Dragonborn pinched the bridge of her nose and nodded. “Fantastic. There’s probably a bandit or two between here and Riften who will provide enough loot to pay for it.”

There were several and then a job at Shor’s Stone where frostbite spiders had overrun the iron mine and driven the miners out. Uthgerd didn’t even register frostbite spiders as a threat, not when her steel armour and Nord blood rendered her immune to their venom. Callaina’s firebolts killed two of them before they could even reach the warriors. She was becoming more skilled in her battle magic.

They overnighted in Shor’s Stone and the next morning, Callaina redonned her court clothing and they went straight to Riften… only to discover Fort Greenwall had been overrun by bandits. If it wasn’t for Lydia’s shield, the world would have ended with an arrow in the Dragonborn’s eye.

“Motherless children of a sea-dead draugr!” Callaina cursed, making Lydia choke and even Uthgerd blinked at the vileness of the insult. “Jenassa, with me. If the Jarl’s let bandits settle this close to Riften, something is very wrong. Lydia, Uthgerd, when you see the sentries dead, enter the fort. I can’t leave these bastards alive.”

Callaina was quiet on her feet and Jenassa was adept at throat-cutting as a former Morag Tong. Uthgerd knew she should be more appalled at the Dragonborn using assassin’s tactics but given she wasn’t a fighter, it made more sense for her to sneak around. When put to the wall, she stood and fought, using spell and Thu’um and in one case her dagger to defend herself.

When the last sentry fell dead right in front of Lydia and Uthgerd, they entered Fort Greenwall to take care of the rest. Every bandit was stripped naked and their heads piked on either side of the road at both gates. The leader, a woman, wore the rare and coveted totemic armour only a few Nords in Skyrim (or elsewhere) could forge.

Regretfully, Uthgerd ceded the armour to Lydia, who was closer to the bandit leader in size. They piled everything else into a handcart that she pushed all the way to Riften, given that one could hardly ask the Dragonborn to do so (though Callaina would have) and that Jenassa would have refused on principle. Callaina was, at least, fair about dividing the spoils equally.

“Hold,” said the gate guard as they approached. “Before you enter the city, you need to pay the visitor’s tax.”

Callaina’s eyebrows rose. “They didn’t mention this in Shor’s Stone.”

“Uh, it’s new,” the guard said quickly. “Just brought in a couple days ago.”

“Son, my name is Callaina Broken-Blade, the Last Dragonborn and Thane of Whiterun,” Callaina said in weary exasperation. “I just cleared out a mine full of spiders and a fort full of bandits. Do you really, _really_ want to explain to your Jarl why you tried to extort me?”

The guard easily had ten years on Callaina, but he flinched like a raw recruit. “Uh, no, I… please, go through, Dragonborn.”

“The Guild’s getting desperate if they’re becoming so blatant,” Jenassa noted as they entered the city.

“I’d heard they had a run of bad luck from a friend in Bruma’s Guild,” Callaina observed. “Well, if they leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.”

As the burly man with dark hair stepped in front of them, Uthgerd had a feeling that wasn’t going to be the case.


	18. An Honest Day's Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, child abandonment, criminal acts, torture, imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict and genocide. Transmute is kind of a boring spell, so I head-canon it can be used to improve unprocessed gems too.

“Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lass?”

The man’s voice was a tenor with baritone reach, thick with the brogue of the Druadachs and seductive in a roguish way. Callaina paused and eyed the well-dressed auburn-haired man with the rosy-fair complexion assessingly. Oh, the roguishness was a blatant front for this one; he sold snake-oil cures too openly but his emerald eyes studied everyone in the marketplace, cataloguing their net worth down to the soles of their shoes.

“I suppose that depends on how you define ‘honest’,” she answered mildly. “I worked for the Provincial Revenue Service once and I’ve been called a thief more times than you can count. It may be true, if we count the stealing of dragon souls from Alduin’s minions theft. But I wager I’ve done more work, honest, dishonest or otherwise, in the past week than you’ve done in the past year.”

“Petty, lass, very petty,” the Thief drawled in response.

“You’re the third man to approach me with a warning, an attempt to extort money or wanting to pull a fast one today,” Callaina said wearily. “Before that, I had to kill a bunch of bandits at Fort Greenwall. I’m here to sell some loot, hire a battlemage and leave. Tell your friends to leave me and my retinue alone or I’ll knock them head over arse with my Voice. Understood?”

“I understand, lass.” He smiled wryly. “Your da already warned us not to mess with you.”

_Thirty years later and he decides to be a father._ “That’s awfully kind of him. If I fail in my mission, all the gold in the world won’t help you when you go down Alduin’s gullet.”

“No, but it might make him choke a bit.” The Thief’s smile deepened. “Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Callaina said with a nod, turning away.

“Brynjolf is of some rank among the Thieves,” Jenassa noted as they walked towards the Bee and Barb to hire rooms for the night. “You can trust his word.”

“Can any Thief be trusted?” Uthgerd countered.

“Callaina is a Thane and the Dragonborn. We could march down to the Ratway, cleanse it with fire and steel, and be applauded for the deed. Brynjolf’s smart enough to know not to provoke her. Because one day, she may need the Guild.”

“I have no problem with them,” Callaina admitted. “They keep the crime rate lower than you might think and in some places, they do more for the poor than the Empire. If the Penitus Oculatus hadn’t watched me like a hawk, I might have joined them myself.”

“Don’t tell Mjoll that. She’s impressed you’re the Dragonborn,” Uthgerd noted.

“I can’t imagine why. Grand destinies can often lead to grand funerals. I’d have preferred anyone else.” Callaina paused, thought of her mother or father as Dragonborn, and then shuddered. “Almost anyone else.”

The Bee and Barb was a neat enough little inn by the canal and Callaina was able to win over the bartender by giving him three flawless amethysts for an Argonian marriage ring. “Do you have more gems?” asked another Argonian, this one clad in yellow-trimmed blue cotton. “I’m looking for two flawless sapphires, some gold ore and a mammoth’s tusk.”

“I have sapphires and iron ore,” Callaina told him. “Give me a moment and they’ll be what you need.”

She pulled out a pair of rough sapphires from her beltpouch, found in Redbelly Mine, and closed her fist around them as she summoned her magicka. When she opened her hand, two unfaceted but water-clear sapphires sat in her palm.

“You’ll need to facet them,” she told him as she offered them.

“Impressive,” remarked a dark-haired young Niben-man with a slightly scruffy goatee. “Alterationist?”

“What formal training I had was mostly in that School,” Callaina admitted as she dug out some iron ore, transmuted it to silver and then to gold. For some reason, the Transmute spell didn’t work on anything that had been smelted, refined or otherwise altered by the hand of man. “Lydia, do you still have that mammoth half-tusk?”

“I do. Ri’saad didn’t want to buy too many or it would glut the market.” The black-haired huscarl pulled said object from her own pack. “Those poachers at Halted Stream Camp were, ah, efficient.”

“And everyone wondered why the giants tried to invade Whiterun,” Callaina agreed with a sigh. “Will these do, marsh-brother?”

“It will do,” he agreed with a smile. “My name is Madesi. And you are?”

“Callaina Broken-Blade, Thane of Whiterun and the Last Dragonborn,” Callaina told him as she handed the items over. “I hope these will be of some use to you.”

“I’ll be able to finish up an order,” Madesi said cheerfully. “Come by my stall tomorrow. I will pay you then.”

“Madesi’s honest,” Jenassa confirmed.

“Jenassa? Still wreaking havoc upon the world?” asked the Cyrod ruefully.

“I am. My artworks have gone from common thugs to the occasional dragon,” Jenassa answered with a smile. “Speaking of jobs, are you still a sell-spell? I can offer you semi-permanent work with the Dragonborn.”

Marcurio (who else could it be) raised his eyebrows. “If she can do Transmute, I’m not sure a Synodic Journeymage would be useful.”

“I’m about Journeymage in Alteration but I’m only to Apprentice in Destruction,” Callaina told him. “Your experience as a battlemage has reached Whiterun.”

“Only because I moved there,” Jenassa laughed.

Marcurio sighed explosively. “I’m not sure I’m up to killing dragons.”

“It’s pretty simple. Shouts are magic and so dragons are vulnerable to shock spells,” Callaina told him. “I tend to drop rocks on the wings, Lydia takes point as huscarl and sword-and-board, Uthgerd and Jenassa flank. If you drain the damn thing’s magicka so it can’t Shout…”

“I can do that. How about we go after that dragon at Lost Tongue Overlook just south of Riften? If it works out, I’ll hire on permanently. If not, no hard feelings. And if I die…” Marcurio smiled wryly. “Dragon shit doesn’t need to think about money.”

“I see why you like him so much,” Callaina said dryly to Jenassa.

“He’s refreshingly practical,” was her mild answer.

“Then once I sell a few things, I’ll pay your fee and bond it before the Jarl’s Steward,” Callaina said. “We leave tomorrow morning.”

“Done,” Marcurio said with a grin. “The next few days will be interesting.”

…

“Dragonborn, I know I have no right to ask this of a Thane from another court, but there’s no one else I can trust in this matter.” Laila smiled at Mjoll to take the sting from her words. “As you’ve no doubt observed, Mjoll is forthright and not suited to operations which require… discretion.”

“You want me to traipse up to Cragslane Cavern and wipe out this skooma operation.” It wasn’t a question in the Dragonborn’s low husky contralto. “Knowing full well I have my own duties, not the least being chasing Alduin and his pattern of dragon resurrections.”

“Callaina, you saw the amount of skooma in that warehouse,” Mjoll told her. “That wasn’t just meant for Riften. If it gets into Whiterun…”

“It can disperse throughout Skyrim,” Callaina finished with a sigh. “Fine. But Jarl Laila, this will cost you. I’ll need to post another fee with Anuriel for Marcurio, I’ll need to pay the Guild to find them-“

“Why on earth would you cooperate with the Guild?” Mjoll interrupted.

“Because I’m not a bloody idiot,” Callaina retorted tersely. “Better the Daedra you know. I hear the gang that’s moved into Windhelm is twice as bad as Brynjolf and his crew, what with them murdering women on the street and robbing corpses. In my experience, the Guild’s a necessary evil, and far more preferable to an alternative of anarchy among the criminals.”

Jenassa, one of her subordinates, was nodding while the carrot-haired Uthgerd sighed in disagreement. Callaina’s retinue had proven themselves capable of felling a dragon and delivering its head to Laila; a skooma operation would be small potatoes in comparison.

“In gold or in favours?” Laila asked bluntly.

Callaina paused thoughtfully. “One or the other. I’ll let Balgruuf decide. He knows the political situation better than I do.”

Laila didn’t even hesitate in nodding agreement. “Done. Balgruuf’s a reasonable man.”

“Then I’ll post Marcurio’s bond now and get to it,” Callaina said with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll need to get that bastard dragon at Northwind Summit too…”

Two days later, she returned, the heads of the offending dealers and said dragon at Northwind Summit in hand. Mjoll had accompanied her as the Rift’s representative and waxed eloquently over the competency of the Dragonborn and her allies as they feasted in celebration. Laila learned that Callaina had wiped out the ‘bandits’ at Fort Greenwall after one fired at her; understandable, though the Jarl wondered if she realised she’d eliminated one of her mother Sigdrifa’s hidden militia bands? Given that they’d been a dagger at Riften’s throat, Laila wasn’t going to complain about their removal, and could truthfully spread her hands and claim helplessness when the Stormsword came demanding answers.

“I wish you’d come to Riften first,” Laila admitted after the ninth toast. “I’d have made you Thane of the Rift.”

“If I’d come to Riften first, I’d probably be working for Brynjolf,” Callaina admitted ruefully. “Hiding from dragons would have seemed a very good idea, especially since the Ratways are underground.”

Laila chuckled. “Well, the gods meant you for greater things. I already agreed to owe Whiterun a boon, but what can I do for you personally? I would see the Rift honour the Dragonborn for ridding it of two dragons.”

“You said you needed a Thane,” Callaina said after a moment’s thought. “If it wasn’t for Mjoll, the Northwind dragon would have eaten me for breakfast. She’s known and respected among your people. Waive the property requirement, as Balgruuf did for me, and make her Thane.”

“Dragonborn!” Mjoll gasped. “Are you certain?”

“You saved my life and since I can’t hang around to pay the life-debt by saving yours, I’d rather see you prosper instead,” Callaina told her with a warm smile. “You’re the champion of the Rift. It should be recognised.”

“And it will be my pleasure to do so,” Laila agreed proudly. “Mjoll, I was hoping you’d buy Honeyside, but since the Dragonborn has asked me to waive that requirement I shall. By my right as Jarl, I name Mjoll the Lioness Thane of the Rift and grant her Iona as huscarl!”

“To Mjoll!” the Dragonborn said, lifting her goblet.

“To Mjoll!” echoed the court.

Laila raised her goblet and toasted her new Thane. All would be well now she had an honest person in her court.


	19. A Fellow Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of religious conflict, war crimes, genocide and torture. Playing around with ‘The Forsworn Conspiracy’ because the Silver-Bloods wouldn’t frame Bjarni since he’s nominally an ally.

“Well, well. Look at you. Your kinsmen have turned you into an animal, Nord. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad.”

Bjarni cracked open an eye to face the smirking hostile face of an old Reachman with the elaborate tattoos of a nobleman. “Fuck you. It was a Thalmor.”

“So, my fellow beast, what do you want?” asked the old man thoughtfully. “Answers about the Forsworn?”

“Madanach, we should just gut him,” suggested another Forsworn from the corner. “He’s a gods-be-damned Stormcloak.”

“And the Silver-Bloods didn’t spirit him away from Ondolemar’s custody?” the Reachman asked in surprise. “He must have done something to irritate them.”

“I killed Atar,” Bjarni explained, sitting up with a wince and a groan. He hoped Ralof got away. “But you should be ashamed of yourself, sending the poor and desperate to assassinate innocents.”

“Yes, because Ulfric and Sigdrifa are paragons of honour and decency,” Madanach drawled.

“Why are you even arguing with him?” demanded the Orc who stood guard near an open door. “Kill him already.”

“I want to know why a Stormcloak was meddling in Silver-Blood affairs,” Madanach answered mildly. “I want to know why a Stormcloak walked away from a fight with Nepos and tried to help young Eltrys find out what was going on.”

“Is Eltrys okay?” Bjarni demanded. “He has nothing to do with this!”

“We got him and his wife out of the city,” Madanach assured him. “I might be a rabid animal but I’m not a complete arsehole. I save that title for Ulfric.”

“A decent Stormcloak. What are these, the end times?” observed a third Forsworn, younger than the rest.

“If Callaina mac Catriona doesn’t kill Alduin, then yes,” Bjarni admitted, using Callaina’s Reacher name. Confessing his own might just see Madanach gut him on principle.

“Alduin? What nonsense is this, Nord?” Madanach demanded, losing his amused smirk.

“Catriona’s firstborn granddaughter is the Dragonborn, and she bid me to speak to Catriona at Glenmoril, and Catriona sent me here,” Bjarni said urgently. “She told me I’d know what to do when I was in Markarth.”

“Stick your nose into everything and get thrown into Cidhna Mine as a heretic,” Madanach said dryly. “I’m guessing Catriona wasn’t counting on that blackcoat bastard Ondolemar getting involved in whatever she hoped to stir up.”

The King in Rags sighed, looking off into the distance. “Still, your meddling has reminded me I’ve been out of the fight for far too long. It’s high time I returned to the hills.”

“And do what? Fight against everyone until you’re dead?” Bjarni asked. “How will that free the Reach?”

“If the gods are kind, the Empire and the Stormcloaks will bleed each other out and I can win my country free of the weakened victor,” Madanach said dryly. “Why can’t the Forsworn have their own land? If it’s good enough for the Stormcloaks…”

“What was done here by m-Ulfric was wrong. I can even see why you consider the Stormsword a traitor,” Bjarni said slowly. “But short of butchering every non-Reacher in the place, there’s no way you’ll be able to have a land free of lowlanders.”

“I’m a realist, boy,” Madanach drawled. “But… if you want to leave this place alive, you will, at least for a time, be Forsworn. If you’d rather go to Sovngarde instead, I’ll hand you a shiv and gut you myself. You’ve earned that much for admitting Ulfric was wrong.”

“How does one become Forsworn? Tsun recognises no oathbreakers,” Bjarni pointed out.

Madanach’s gaze was sad. “Every warrior of the Reach swears to protect their people and nation… and because the Silver-Bloods own half the damned Reach on paper, we break that oath to try and pry their fingers from it. I tried to play by the Empire’s rules and they betrayed us. Now all I have left is blood and terror.”

His gaze sharpened. “For a Nord, to become Forsworn is to deliberately murder another Nord in such a way as to deny him Sovngarde. There’s a snitch named Grisvar the Unlucky. Prove his name right and kill him dishonourably. Then we can talk.”

The King in Rags stalked away, leaving Bjarni sitting in the dark despairing. How could he violate every code of honour he’d ever learned just to save his life?

…

It had been a long time since he dared to think of himself as Marius.

Ondolemar sat at his desk, writing out another report, when one of his two guards came to the office’s door. “There’s some kind of riot at Cidhna Mine,” she reported. “Madanach’s rallied the Forsworn.”

“I imagine he’s just discovered Ulfric’s son is there and is planning a nice long execution,” Ondolemar observed dryly.

“So that’s why you sent him to Cidhna Mine instead of to the Embassy!” exclaimed the guard. “Forgive me for doubting you.”

“We’re meant to make life interesting for the Empire,” Ondolemar reminded her. “The Silver-Bloods and the Forsworn killing each other will take a good half-Legion to put them down, which will weaken Tullius elsewhere and allow Ulfric to gain momentum… until the General turns his attention to the Old Holds once more. Madanach is clever enough to retreat… and we can supply him. A three-front war should entertain the Empire for the next few years.”

“Damn,” the guard said admiringly. “I see why Elenwen posted you here.”

“Some of us are intelligent enough to operate on our own,” Ondolemar said sardonically. “Return to your post.”

He returned to his report. But Marius kept on intruding, reminding him of older oaths… and a prophecy.

For now, he ignored it. It wasn’t yet time.


	20. Kynesgrove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, child abandonment, war crimes, genocide and imprisonment.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

The dragon’s blast of fire engulfed the hilltop from which it had crawled out, scorching the pine trees and green earth outside of the mound, charring a couple hapless wild goats. It took all Egil was capable of to hold his Greater Ward in the face of a sustained attack, the dome protecting the remaining few of his squad that accompanied him to Kynesgrove. Then, with a wrench of magicka, he cast Grand Healing to bring the wounded to their feet as the dragon laughed.

The situation was worse than even Ulfric realised. The dragons hadn’t just returned, Alduin was actively resurrecting them, and the Dragonborn seemed more interested in serving Whiterun’s interests than doing her job of killing the cursed beasts. Egil could understand why she wasn’t fond of the Stormcloaks. But he’d like to see a little more dragon-slaying and a little less making Balgruuf even richer.

“Your courage does you honour, joor,” the dragon remarked conversationally. “But die now and know your fate is to-“

Thunder cracked as lightning came down from a clear sky to crawl across his bronze skin in scarlet tendrils. Egil gaped as the rubble from the mound’s explosive open floated in a semi-circle before dropping upon the dragon’s outstretched wings with more force than the height suggested possible. A clean wind blew the smoke away to reveal a wiry blonde Breton wielding one of the legendary curved Blades swords.

“C’mon, you oversized lizard,” taunted the Blade. “You’ll make a fine adornment on my wall.”

“Bruniik,” spat the dragon. “Akaviri. I will feast on your soul.”

“Lydia, try to keep Delphine alive,” ordered a low warm contralto. “Uthgerd, Jenassa, flank the bastard. Marcurio, you and I won’t let him take to the air.”

“By your order, Dragonborn,” said a man with a Cyrod accent. “I need new robes anyway.”

“Storm-Riders, covering fire!” Egil ordered as he popped the cork from a magicka vial and chugged the vile brew. “I’ll Ward and Heal!”

A man should stick to what he was good at when others could deal damage to an enemy so much the better.

This dragon had killed a third of Egil’s cavalry in one blast and had promised to put paid to the rest of them with one or two more. Six people, only one of them a battlemage and another a sedentary bureaucrat, shouldn’t make so great a difference in a fight. But they did. Callaina, whatever her sins, had inherited their mother’s tactical capacity and deployed it appropriately. And she obviously had experience in killing dragons.

It still killed four more of Egil’s people before it died. Dragons weren’t immortal, practical invulnerable engines of destruction for nothing. Even his Restoration skills had their limits.

But when they’d sent a squad of twenty down to Bonestrewn Crest under the command of Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, only one came back, and he died later from the burns. Ten casualties out of sixteen was better than that, if only by a little. His sister had saved six lives – seven, including his own.

“Well, that’s one less of the bastards in the world,” Delphine said, spitting on the dragon’s bleached skeleton after Callaina absorbed its soul. “You really should dedicate a couple weeks to going around Skyrim and killing every dragon you see.”

“And I told you I wasn’t going to kill dragons without cause,” Callaina retorted calmly.

“This son of a bitch could have parked himself on a mound and intimidated the locals into feeding him livestock,” Delphine observed. “Instead, he decided to try and roast the village.”

“How many dragons do you want me to kill? I’ve killed one in Whiterun, three in the Rift and two here. You might be comfortable with multiple casualties but I’d rather avoid fights if I can help it.” Callaina stepped around the Blade and glanced around. “Who’s in charge around here?”

“That would be me,” Egil said after swallowing some water from his flask. “Sister, your timing is impeccable. That dragon was about to roast us all.”

“I saw your Ward and Healing,” said Marcurio, the Cyrod mage. “Damned fine work, Stormcloak. A Synodic mage couldn’t have done better.”

“I trained with the Vigilants,” Egil told him modestly.

“Egil.” Callaina’s voice sounded wary and weary. “No matter where I go, I seem to run into family.”

“You’ve met Bjarni then, Dragonborn?” Leif the Lonely, Egil’s second, asked after Helga Hard-Heart helped him to his feet.

“I did. He hasn’t come back?”

“No. I was hoping you could tell us where he went,” Egil admitted. “Our sources told us you had words in front of the Khajiit at Whiterun’s gates.”

“I told him a few home truths about Mother and your father’s actions in the Reach, and suggested he go have a talk to our grandmother Catriona at Glenmoril, then come back and tell me why the Stormcloaks were the better option,” Callain admitted with a frown. “If he’s gone and done something stupid…”

“Glenmoril? That’s Forsworn!” blurted out Helga, a survivor of the Markarth Incident.

“Yes. Sigdrifa Stormsword’s mother is a Hagraven who, when faced with her own daughter, couldn’t cause her harm even though her king Madanach fell for it,” Callaina said softly. “I won’t say I _condone_ what the Forsworn do, but I will say that the hypocrisy of the Stormcloaks in using terrorism to achieve their goals and then chewing out the Forsworn for using similar tactics is staggering.”

Egil’s soldiers knew better than to make jokes about his grandmother being a Hagraven explaining Sigdrifa, though they probably all thought so and he couldn’t blame them. But Egil still sighed. “If Bjarni’s killed by the Forsworn-“

“I know Granma. She might kick him up the arse but she’ll give him a chance to prove he isn’t like other lowlanders,” Callaina answered.

“My father would want your head if Bjarni dies because of this,” Egil warned. “Mother won’t be happy either.”

“If I may be frank, I couldn’t give two _shits_ what your parents think,” Callaina told him candidly. “You can’t pretend I don’t exist for several years, then tell everyone I’m a spineless puppet, and then act as if you mean more than dragon shit to me. I won’t raise a hand to the Stormcloaks if they leave me and Whiterun alone. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” promised Egil softly. “I can’t speak for Mother and Father though.”

“Sigdrifa might surprise us and be reasonable,” Delphine observed.

Delphine, whoever she was, didn’t know Sigdrifa at all if she believed that.


	21. An Axe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, sexual activity, child abuse, child abandonment, religious conflict and war crimes. Guys, gals and enby pals, I present to you SIGDRIFA NO.

“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

The words rolled across the skies of Skyrim, proclaiming the Dragonborn to all and sundry, shaking the province to the roots of the mountains themselves. Stories, each one more fantastical than the next, had flowed along the roads and laneways like rainwater trickling down stone. The Last Dragonborn was for the Empire. No, she stood with the Stormcloaks. Don’t be ridiculous, she was going to become the next Empress and build her throne from Ulfric’s bones. She could break a dragon’s back with a Word. Skyrim’s finest warriors clamoured to join her honour guard. She was a Septim. No, her grandmother was a Redguard princess. The Aurelii weren’t traitors and the Medes committed treason by destroying them. She was Ulfric’s stepdaughter and would give the Jagged Crown to one of her brothers. Balgruuf had proposed marriage to her the moment he met her. All Nords knew the truth and none them were more than half-right to begin with.

Callaina was exhausted, bedraggled and worried by the time she rode into Whiterun two days after her greeting by the Greybeards. No one had heard from Bjarni or Ralof in a week and rumours of a massive Forsworn uprising in Markarth had just reached the eastern Holds. Given the Kreathling Jarls’ propensity for pissing people off, Callaina was afraid to discover what happened to her half-brother, the one she’d possibly sent to his doom.

This late in the evening, Whiterun’s streets were deserted but for a few folks returning from the pub and the night guard. “Uthgerd, can you put Marcurio and Delphine up for a couple days?” Callaina asked the carrot-haired woman. “Jenassa’s got a permanent room at the Drunken Huntsman and Lydia has a bed in Dragonsreach but…”

“You should really buy Breezehome,” observed Uthgerd.

Lydia grinned. “Uncle Balgruuf may have other plans for our Dragonborn.”

Callaina’s cheeks went red. She’d slept with the man once, more out of a need for comfort than romance!

“Balgruuf and Callaina?” Delphine asked amusedly. “Sigdrifa would hit the roof.”

“I…I…” Callaina’s cheeks were hot enough to chase away the chill of autumn.

“Already? You certainly don’t waste time,” Jenassa said with a smile. “He’s handsome, rich, bathes more than once a week. If you’re into Nords, there’s worse options.”

“The Empire’s reaction will be interesting,” Marcurio noted. “If Sigdrifa Stormsword would hit the roof, Tullius might just ascend to Aetherius from the shock of it.”

“I’m going to Dragonsreach. To talk,” Callaina said in a strangled voice.

“If he doesn’t make you orgasm twice, I’ll go and have a chat to him,” Jenassa offered. “Even Nords have no excuse.”

“I’m leaving. Now. Goodbye.” Callaina headed for the path that led up to the little square that held Clan Grey-Mane and Clan Battle-Born’s houses, much to the laughter of her friends.

Lydia joined her just in front of the Temple of Kynareth. “I’m sorry, Callaina. I thought they all knew,” she apologised.

“It’s okay. It’s just…” Callaina shook her head. “Bjarni’s wandering around Skyrim without adult supervision or he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, and somehow, it’s probably my fault because I sent him to Glenmoril. If he dies, Ulfric’s going to hate me.”

“Bjarni Storm-Born is a big boy who can take care of himself,” Lydia said firmly. “You’ve been acknowledged as Dragonborn by the Greybeards. What now?”

“Damned if I know,” Callaina admitted. “I know the Akaviri had the answer to defeating Alduin, but I’ve forgotten more of the dragonlore than I realised. Cloud Ruler’s archives are destroyed and Esbern, the last loremaster, is probably dead. He wasn’t young during the Great War and now he’d be in his late sixties at least.”

“Talk to Farengar,” Lydia suggested. “He might know a few things.”

“Thanks.” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose as they passed the dead Gildergreen. “I think I understand now why my great-great-grandmother went batshit during the Oblivion Crisis. The politics are ridiculous and it seems like every daft bastard’s throwing caltrops in my path.”

“You’ve made good use of it. Having Jarl Laila owe Whiterun a favour will come in handy.”

“I hope your uncle can make use of it.”

Dragonsreach was quiet, only the kitchen and Farengar’s workroom still alight, and Callaina climbed upstairs to the guest room wearily. Uthgerd had a point. Maybe she could buy her own place. But didn’t the interdict still hold?

Balgruuf’s office door was still open and from here, she could see the Jarl poring over a book. His silver-threaded hair was loosened from its braids and in the privacy of his own quarters, he wore a loose linen shirt and breeks. It was strange how muscular that rangy frame was, even after she learned Irileth practiced sword-fighting with him for an hour each day. She liked him, respected him and thought him attractive. But that surely wasn’t romance, was it?

“Callaina.” His smile reached his pale blue eyes. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

“As are you.” She approached the office door. “So… I’ve hit a brick wall with Alduin. I’m hoping Farengar knows something of dragonlore, because I’ve forgotten more than I realised.”

“My border patrols tell me that the dragons are avoiding Whiterun Hold these days,” he told her. “How many did you kill in the Old Holds?”

“Three in the Rift, two in Eastmarch.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I hired a battlemage named Marcurio in Riften, and wound up sorting out a few of Laila’s problems. I told her she owed Whiterun a favour.”

“I know. She sent her axe via her new Thane, Mjoll the Lioness, who asked after Uthgerd the Unbroken of all people.” Balgruuf rose to his feet. “Ulfric can rattle his swords all he likes, but the Rift won’t march against Whiterun. I suspect Laila doesn’t much like Ulfric anyway, even if she believes in the Stormcloak cause.”

“Has Ulfric made a threat?” Callaina asked. “I told Egil that I wouldn’t lift a hand or my Voice on the Stormcloaks unless they attacked me or Whiterun.”

“No. But Laila’s made it clear we’re allies by sending me an axe – and I’ve kept it, to show I desire no fight with her.” The Jarl came closer, tilting his head. “Did you go to Windhelm?”

“No, just Kynesgrove. Delphine told me Alduin was raising dragons from the dead and…” Callaina sighed. “Egil’s wasted as a rebel. His skill at Restoration’s equal to any Vigilant I’ve ever seen. He Warded his people against a dragon’s fire and then Healed several of them.”

“I think, left to himself, he’d be a priest,” Balgruuf agreed. “Did you hear the news from Markarth?”

“That Bjarni’s gone missing and Forsworn rampaged through the streets?”

“I have a couple agents in the city,” Balgruuf confessed. “Your brother apparently smashed Thongvor’s head into a pulp during the Forsworn riot. A Thalmor Justicar named Ondolemar threw him into Cidhna Mine as a Talos worshipper.”

“Fuck,” Callaina cursed. What was Marius _thinking_?

“Madanach’s out in the hills again. I’ll send him the customary gratuity so Whiterun’s traders can travel the Reach in peace.” Balgruuf chuckled. “I remember his first rule. We exchanged a few letters. I’ve always respected him.”

“He’s my grandmother’s cousin.” Callaina sighed again. “Bjarni killing a Silver-Blood. I suppose their atrocities disgusted him.”

“Perhaps.” Balgruuf offered his hand. “Come to bed, woman. It’s late and I’ve missed you.”

She went. They were friends. That’s all it was.

In the morning, a messenger – an auburn-haired man in totemic plate – arrived from Windhelm with an axe. It wasn’t in Eastmarch’s colours. “My name is Calder, huscarl to Sigdrifa Stormsword,” he announced flatly. “She offers this axe to Callaina Broken-Blade. Will the Dragonborn keep it and make peace with her kin… or return it and declare herself nithing to them?”

Callaina stared at it in horror. There was no good choice in this scenario.


	22. Extended Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict. Time to see how Bjarni’s doing!

“There’s not a Stormcloak left alive in the Reach,” Madanach said with some satisfaction. “What’s the situation on the dragons?”

“We’ve had a couple attacks near Word Walls, but after a few times spent dying, the dragons went elsewhere,” reported Brochan of Holy Mountain Clan. “They’re avoiding Whiterun for some reason.”

“Because the Dragonborn, the one who can keep them dead by absorbing their souls, lives there,” supplied the Forsworn’s newest and most unlikely ally. “Dragons don’t reincarnate, not the way we do. Once another dragon or the Dragonborn kills them, it’s over.”

Madanach nodded. “Makes sense. Well, we control everything outside of Markarth, and if my plans reach fruition – pun intended – I’ll control the city too. Send word to our kinswoman that the Reach has Words and an Akaviri temple that might serve her well. Let it not be said the Reachfolk didn’t play their part in saving the world.”

“I’ll send it with our acceptance of Balgruuf’s gift,” Kaie said. “The Jarl of Whiterun is keen on making sure his wagons reach their markets.”

“I’ve always liked Balgruuf,” Madanach agreed.

“I hope you do,” observed Bjarni. “I’m pretty sure he and Callaina are romantically involved.”

Madanach’s grin broadened. “Well then, if they wed, that makes him family.”

He nodded to the others. “Dismissed. I need to talk to my cousin’s grandson.”

Kaie lingered for a moment, giving Bjarni a pointed glance, then left Madanach’s tent.

The King in Rags sighed and sat back in his fur-cushioned seat. He felt his sixty-something years now. Retaking the Reach was more wearying than he recalled.

“What are your plans now?” he asked after a moment’s silence. “I imagine it’s going to be hard to return to Windhelm and feast at your father’s right hand.”

Bjarni gave a short sharp laugh. “That place is reserved for Galmar and when the old bear’s not around, it’s usually Egil. I treat non-Nords as I would a Nord and it irritates most of my family.”

Madanach studied the lad who had the misfortune to be Ulfric’s son. It had taken him a while to see past Sigdrifa’s colouring and discern the Stormcloak’s features, and in that while, Bjarni had proven himself by killing Grisvar the Unlucky, Thongvor Silver-Blood and several Stormcloaks in a hidden camp to the west. Even so, he’d simply named Bjarni as ‘my cousin’s grandson’, with only Kaie knowing the specifics. Several older Forsworn had probably figured it out but forbore to comment as Madanach already knew… and hadn’t acted on it.

“You might as well deliver our thank-you gift to Balgruuf and word to Callaina we might have things which will help her,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I don’t want to get you disowned simply because you have a conscience-“

“There were survivors who escaped,” Bjarni interrupted. “I suspect my parents will know in short order. I’ll be nithing soon enough, I suppose.”

“Even your brother Egil would disown you?” Madanach asked in disbelief.

“Egil’s a Vigilant and the Forsworn are evil Daedra worshippers,” Bjarni answered with a harsh laugh.

“You could have left after killing Grisvar,” Madanach said slowly. “No one would have held it against you.”

Bjarni shook his head. “I couldn’t. My mother did much wrong to her people and I think that’s why Catriona sent me up here – to pay wergild. I may not be a Storm-Born after this all gets out, but I’m still a Nord, and a Nord pays their debts.”

Madanach glanced away, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. If more lowland Nords were like Bjarni…

He shook his head, dispelling the sentimentality. “Kaie will take you to Lost Valley. You should be able to nip over to Falkreath after that. It’s not that you’re not welcome here, but I’m calling a convocation of the clans, and they’ll object to Sigdrifa’s son being here.”

“I understand,” Bjarni said simply. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Madanach smiled. “Lad, you’ve done enough.”

…

“Sigdrifa. Did. _What?_ ”

Rustem was sharpening his naginata blade when Astrid’s astonished yelp echoed throughout the cave complex that was Falkreath Sanctuary.

“Signed her own damned death warrant,” growled Arnbjorn. “Sending the Dragonborn an axe… That’s gonna piss off all sorts of people, including the woman who can eat dragon souls like candy.”

“For Sithis’ sake,” Astrid swore. “Has she gone completely insane?”

“Probably. She’s always been a little cracked.” Arnbjorn sighed. “I know she’s your friend, Astrid, but we can’t help her. Our Family comes first.”

“I know, I know…”

They went into their bedroom, the conversation dropping to a murmur, and Rustem tested the edge of his naginata with his thumb. It was sharp enough.

“What’s the big deal about an axe?” Festus suddenly asked Nazir as they left the kitchen.

“Traditionally, sending an axe is forcing someone to declare their intentions,” the Crown explained as they passed the Word Wall. “If Callaina keeps the axe, she’s saying that she’s the Stormsword’s friend. If she returns it, they’re foes. It’s usually Jarls who do the axe thing though.”

Festus shook his head. “Yes, let’s irritate the woman who eats dragon souls. I hope Astrid won’t accept any more jobs from Sigdrifa. This could end poorly for us if she does.”

Nazir glanced at Rustem. “What does the Listener think?”

“We’re not taking jobs on _my daughter_ or her extended family,” Rustem said simply. “Sigdrifa and her brood don’t count in my eyes.”

He rose to his feet. “Rikke actually hired me to deal with some Stormcloak trash… and a couple recalcitrant Elder Councillors. Since we’re waiting on the arrival of Commander Maro and his son, who’s up for a spot of making the Dragonborn’s life a little easier?”

“You wouldn’t survive walking into Windhelm,” Nazir said bluntly. “Sigdrifa knows you’d be coming for her.”

Rustem’s smile deepened. “That’s why I’m paying a visit to Riften. We’re going to start with a little character assassination.”


	23. Diplomatic Immunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, war crimes, religious conflict, imprisonment and torture.

“Of all the people I expected at one of my soirees, you were fairly low on the list,” noted the golden-haired womer with the dramatic makeup. “Not that I’m displeased, mind you. Simply moderately astonished.”

“We can mark it as a national holiday on the calendar if you’d like,” Callaina said sardonically. “Call it ‘Elenwen Surprise Day’ or something.”

Elenwen’s mouth quirked to the side. “I appreciate dealing with people who are realists, Callaina. We have mutual enemies and that can make allies of the most unlikely sort.”

“I want access to whatever you took from Cloud Ruler Temple,” Callaina said bluntly. “It’s in your interests to assist me in defeating Alduin.”

Elenwen took a goblet of wine from a passing servant’s tray. “Oh? I mean, the dragons are an inconvenience…”

“If Alduin wins, he’ll devour the world.” Callaina sipped carefully from her cup of wine. “Now, what happens afterwards is a little iffy and depends on whether you subscribe to Nord or Akaviri theology being more accurate, but it’s generally believed that Akatosh created Alduin to destroy worlds so He could create them anew. An endless cycle of rebirth and renewal, if you will.”

The Ambassador took a large mouthful of wine. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“I suppose if you believe you’re a god trapped in mortal flesh, it would be,” Callain agreed dryly. “Now, traditional Nords believe that one day, they’ll face off against Alduin with Shor and all the heroes of Sovngarde in a final battle to prove their last best worth… and that the heroes of this cycle will become the gods of the next.”

“Sounds about Nord,” Elenwen mused. “The Akaviri?”

“Well, the Akaviri believed that Alduin will regurgitate the souls he devours as dragons – immortal, practically invulnerable and embodying invincibility. Equally inconvenient from a certain point of view. The Last Dragonborn of each kalpa, each cycle, is more or less humanity’s champion to prove itself worthy of continuing existence.”

Elenwen actually shuddered. “That matches with what I’ve read from Esbern’s notes.”

_Well, well, Delphine may not have been talking from her arse when she made this suggestion._ “So I’m proposing a truce. I won’t bring the storm down on your embassy and what’s left of the Thalmor in Skyrim and you give me access to those records and stay the hell out of my way. Do you see what I mean about it being in your interests?”

“I do, I do,” Elenwen said thoughtfully. “I think that’s a reasonable enough request. Just imagine what would have happened if you’d died at Cloud Ruler Temple…”

“You’d be dealing with either my father or uncle as Dragonborn, and neither of them are particularly reasonable when it comes to the Thalmor,” Callaina said dryly. “They’d get access to those records… but every Altmer in Skyrim would probably be dead first.”

“Praise Auriel you’re the Dragonborn then,” Elenwen said fervently. “I’ll have the files delivered to your room at the Winking Skeever. But tonight, please, enjoy the party.”

The womer went off to irritate someone else and Callaina sipped again from her goblet. Diplomatic immunity as a Thane of Whiterun came in handy on occasion.

“So, cousin, we finally meet.” The snide, haughty tones could only come from Siddgeir, whose antler-wrought golden crown and silks were far too grand for a Jarl of his station.

“We do and I don’t have an interest in Falkreath,” Callaina said, turning to face the weedy black-haired youngster. “Your tenure as Jarl won’t be threatened by me.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Siddgeir demanded.

“Because she’s my consort and I could buy and sell Falkreath ten times over,” Balgruuf said cheerfully, slapping Siddgeir on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “We should talk business later, kinsman.”

“That’s what Nenya’s for,” Siddgeir sneered, though the expression was sickly. “Good evening, Balgruuf.”

He disappeared into the crowd and Balgruuf gave an evil chuckle. “I’m guessing he hasn’t gotten the news from Falkreath.”

Callaina shrugged. “If he thinks Tullius will exert himself to make him Jarl again, it isn’t bloody likely. He’ll probably replace Ralof with Nenya… if he can retake Falkreath from the Stormcloaks.”

“That might save us the work of killing Ulfric, because the outrage of an Altmer Jarl would carry him off,” Balgruuf agreed dryly.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” drawled General Tullius himself, wearing the gilded breastplate and crimson silk tunic of a senior Legion officer. “Anything that makes my life easier is appreciated.”

“Tullius.” Balgruuf inclined his head. “What brings you here?”

“Politics. We can’t let our elven overlords down by not attending their parties.” Tullius glanced at Elenwen as she spoke to a portly well-dressed blond Nord. “Rikke tells me the dragons could be as big a problem as the Oblivion Crisis. Is she right? I won’t lie, Callaina – your Voice would make the reunification of Skyrim a lot easier.”

“General, I just made nice to the womer who crucified my grandfather and most of the people I knew as a child because she hung on to the Akaviri records that might give a clue on how to kill dragons,” Callaina told him with weary candour. “How bad does that make the situation to you?”

“Stendarr’s Horn,” Tullius swore softly. “That bad?”

“That bad. The Dragonborn was supposed to have the full resources of the Blades at their beck and call. Instead I got a few memories of stories I heard as a kid, a group of recalcitrant monks who dribble out knowledge to me like a miser with his last few septims, a mother who essentially declared war on me and everyone in Skyrim wanting me to run their errands,” Callaina replied. “So unless the Legion has some practical information or assistance, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about its plans. Every Nord who dies bravely feeds Alduin in Sovngarde, which only makes my life the harder.”

Tullius’ mouth tightened. “I see. Well, I’ll pass on our intelligence concerning the dragons. Rikke and I are trying to talk some sense into the Elder Council over the interdict but after Vittoria Vicci’s death…”

“The end goal is Titus Mede himself,” Callaina said softly. “Now that Vittoria’s marriage to a prominent Stormcloak clan can’t happen, and Armand Motierre’s in Whiterun, it’s fairly bloody obvious. If everyone from the Marei to Mede die, he’s the next in line to the Ruby Throne.”

“Over my dead body,” Tullius growled. “I’ll put you on that damned throne myself before I let Motierre take it. If you’ll excuse me?”

He went over to Elisif, leaving Callaina utterly speechless. What could she say to that?


	24. Accidental Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Bjarni! I thought we’d lost you for sure.”

Bjarni embraced Ralof at the door of the Jarl’s longhouse. “I survived. What are you doing in Falkreath?”

Ralof sighed explosively, glancing at Nenya, the eternal steward of the Hold. “Siddgeir pissed off to Solitude for some party and when I arrived to speak to Thorygg Sun-Killer, he pointed out we had the manpower to take Falkreath. So I decided to go in ahead, get the folks used to the idea…”

“Next thing you know, Ralof’s a Thane and we decided that we really didn’t want to deal with another ten years of Dengeir’s mismanagement, so we voted him in as Jarl,” Nenya finished cheerfully.

The blond nodded. “Yeah. Then we went through Dengeir’s papers. Bjarni, your grandfather betrayed Callaina’s grandfather by alerting the Imperials to Arius’ plot. No wonder she can’t stand the Kreathling side of the family.”

“What I learned of my mother’s actions in the Reach doesn’t surprise me one bit about this,” Bjarni said grimly. “Ralof, I won’t mince words. I joined the Forsworn to escape Cidhna Mine and killed Thongvor Silver-Blood and Kettir Red-Shoal’s men. After learning about the atrocities, I couldn’t…”

“Your parents will disown you. That’s if they live long enough to do so,” Ralof said quietly.

Bjarni gave him a startled look. “What do you mean?”

“Your mother decided to send an axe to Callaina directly,” Ralof reported grimly. “Because pissing off the Dragonborn during the civil war is always an excellent life choice.”

“Fuck,” Bjarni swore.

“My words exactly,” Nenya agreed.

“Jarl Ralof!” One of the Stormcloak scouts came pelting down the street. “There’s a twenty-strong Imperial force coming down the road towards Falkreath!”

Ralof’s fists clenched. “Twenty soldiers to retake Falkreath? I think I’m insulted. Bjarni, grab an axe. If you kill a few Cyrods I’m sure that’ll earn you some forgiveness.”

“I stand by my actions with the Forsworn,” Bjarni said softly. “Thongvor and Kettir were scum who needed to die.”

“I don’t doubt it. But Ulfric’s high command won’t see it that way.” Ralof grabbed his warhammer. “Let’s go teach the Imperials a lesson in manners.”

The twenty Legionaries wore the red, black and gold of the Penitus Oculatus and were led by an older Cyrod whose hair and beard were too perfectly manicured to be a proper soldier. Ralof’s troops, all taken from the Falkreath camp and native to the Hold, surrounded them unseen. What was the wagon with all the barrels that reeked of earth-tar for?

“By the Nine,” said Thorygg hoarsely. “They’re going to burn us out of our homes.”

“No, they won’t,” Ralof said grimly. “Archers!”

Kreathling archers were the best in Skyrim and after their first volley of arrows, less than ten of the Cyrods remained. Bjarni roared the Battle-Cry with half of Ralof’s soldiers, dismaying the enemy, then fell upon them like wolves on a tender goat. Penitus Oculatus weren’t as battle-hardened as Legionaries and so it was lambs to the slaughter.

“What is the meaning of this?” roared the courtier-commander.

“We’re Stormcloaks, you fucking idiot, and we’re making sure you don’t take Falkreath back for the Empire!” Ralof retorted before smashing his head in with the warhammer.

It was during the subsequent search and looting of the corpses that they discovered the commander was the Emperor’s own bastard son and the target was the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary just outside of Falkreath-town.

“Looks like Astrid owes us one,” Ralof drawled sardonically. “Who wants to deliver the news?”

“I will,” Bjarni offered. “Hopefully they’re not offended by me knocking on their front door.”

Two Redguards, one athletic and with a familiar profile and the other whip-lean with the grace of an Alik’r swordsman, were just exiting the Sanctuary when Bjarni approached them. “I’m guessing you’re one of Sigdrifa’s spawn,” remarked the athletic one.

“My name is Bjarni and I just thought you’d want to know the Emperor’s son _was_ leading a squad of Penitus Oculatus here to burn you out of your Sanctuary,” Bjarni retorted flatly.

“Was?” asked the other Redguard.

“We thought they were an Imperial reclamation force came to take Falkreath so we ambushed them.”

“If we’re being technical, you owe the Brotherhood for killing Maro when we’ve been paid for it, but since you saved our lives, we’ll consider the debt paid,” observed the first Redguard, who carried a bladed spear. “I… apologise for calling you Sigdrifa’s spawn. There’s a lot of old pain and grief between me and your mother, but you don’t deserve to bear the brunt of it.”

“You’re Rustem.” Bjarni studied the Redguard intently, realising he had the same golden stain to his irises as Callaina did.

“I am.” Rustem sighed. “If the Empire was after us, I think they’ve found out a few things.”

“I think going to Haafingar now would be a very bad idea,” the other Redguard agreed. “Tell Jarl Ralof we appreciate the assistance.”

They turned around and re-entered the Sanctuary, leaving Bjarni somewhat confused.

“Huh. Someone’s trying to kill his way up the Imperial line of succession,” Ralof mused when Bjarni told him what happened. Lod the blacksmith was smelting down all those Imperial arms and armour while they’d used the wagon and earth-tar to burn the corpses on the road. Let Mede think his son was swallowed up by Falkreath’s wilderness. “Tullius will have bigger things than us on his mind.”

“We can only hope,” Bjarni agreed. “About what I did in the Reach…?”

“You did what you had to in order to survive,” Ralof said firmly. “In fact, having someone who’s on the good side of those howling barbarians can only be to Falkreath’s good. Whatever your parents decide, Bjarni, you’re part of my clan.”

Bjarni burst into tears again and the man who’d been the closest thing he’d ever really had to a big brother embraced him. He wouldn’t be, no matter what, utterly forsaken and made nithing. That was the best he could hope for at the moment.


	25. Interlude: The Sharpness of Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Balgruuf is like ‘fuck y’all’ to Ulfric’s entire household now.

“Is that a dai-katana?”

Balgruuf glanced up from the ebony greatsword laid across his desk on a bed of silk to see Callaina leaning against the doorway. She wore one of her drab homespun dresses today with her black hair pulled into a utilitarian braid, the horse cloak-brooch he’d given her fastening a plain grey hooded cloak at the throat. “Something like that,” he admitted. “Irileth told me it’s called the Ebony Blade.”

“Marius Aurelius – the Eternal Champion – wielded it in the Third Era during the Imperial Simulacrum years,” she immediately observed. “It’s a treacherous weapon, Balgruuf. Even Marius, a mer of great honour, had trouble wielding it.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I know. That’s why I’m sending it to someone who so richly deserves it.”

Callaina was far from stupid; her blue-green eyes narrowed. “I _don’t_ want to know,” she finally said. “I don’t even know how it got here. Be careful, because Mephala won’t like you screwing around with one of her favourite artefacts.”

“It was my suggestion,” Irileth said from her place in the corner. “The Webspinner will derive great amusement from this… and Her worshippers in the Grey Quarter have begged for Her assistance.”

_“I don’t want to know,”_ Callaina repeated. “I just finishing deciphering the notes Elenwen kept from Cloud Ruler Temple. The answers I need are in Sky Haven Temple, which is somewhere in the Reach. I’ll need to go to Falkreath, speak to Granma and find out where it is.”

“Will you be travelling alone?” Balgruuf asked carefully.

Callaina shook her head. “No. Lydia and Jenassa will be accompanying me. Reacher protocol states that a royal must have a retinue of no more than two when visiting a Matriarch. Any more smacks of distrust.”

“What if a dragon attacks?”

“Then the Forsworn will take care of him. Or have you not heard the rumours of dragons fleeing the Reach?” Callaina asked wryly. “I suppose even Alduin gets sick of resurrecting his minions.”

Balgruuf chuckled. “I’ve sent a gift to Madanach already. Hopefully he will receive you.”

“I’m his cousin’s granddaughter. He’ll receive me.” Callaina pushed herself from the doorway and stepped into the office. “Balgruuf, I…”

“Leave the politics to me,” he said gently. “Save the world.”

She nodded. “I will. I… care for you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he assured her. “Come back to me.”

“I will.” Her expression was still uncertain, so he came around the desk to kiss it away. Balgruuf knew that Callaina knew nothing of a healthy romantic relationship and was probably justifying theirs in terms of politics and practicality. That was okay with him. Affection was there and if they weren’t madly in love like the stories, he’d take the steady warmth of a hearth-fire over the inconstant blaze of a conflagration.

He rested his forehead against hers. “Come back to me,” he repeated. “I care for you too.”

Her smile was sweet and shy before she left the private quarters.

“It is, I think, good that she isn’t around for what we plan to do,” Irileth said softly. “I don’t think she’d understand.”

“She’d understand, but underneath the Dragonborn is the little girl who desperately wants to be a true Nord, and that true Nord is one who is honest and loyal and a paragon of honour.” Balgruuf deliberately looked down at the Ebony Blade laid across his desk. “The Stormsword thinks she knows how to use honour as a knife? I will educate her on the true sharpness of it. Deliver this to her and let her make of it what Mephala wills.”

Irileth smiled grimly. “You think like a Dunmer.”

“I’ve had an excellent teacher.”


	26. Lie by Omission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“You lied to us!”

If it wasn’t for Farkas’ brute strength, Njada might have succeeded in punching Ria, and given the girl wasn’t nicknamed ‘Stonearm’ for nothing… Irkand sighed. In theory, sending the Imperial Heir incognito to learn the ways of Nord honour with the arbiters of it was a good idea. The reality of it, once she’d earned her Skyforge Steel sword and revealed her true identity, was messier than anticipated.

“Technically, she didn’t,” Athis said quietly. The Dunmer was shaping into a steady, stable warrior and had managed to even teach Irkand a few knife tricks. “But in the spirit of it… she did.”

Kodlak sighed, his expression more sad than angry. “I wish you’d told us who you were, Ria. We would have relished the chance to teach the Imperial Heir who desired to understand Nord honour-“

“-Piss off, Kodlak!” Njada interrupted with a snarl. “She’s a goddamned liar!”

“That is _enough_ from you,” Vilkas grated. “We all agree that Ria lied by omission. But if you can hold Stormcloak sentiments, she can be an Imperial supporter. The Companions are apolitical… but we don’t prevent our members from having private opinions.”

“Did you know, Irkand?” Kodlak asked the Redguard, eyebrow rising.

“I did,” he admitted. “I was one of her combat teachers and Rikke was another. The intention – to have an Empress who understood Skyrim’s importance to the Empire – was good. But I kept it to myself _because_ of Njada and the Grey-Manes’ political affiliations.”

“Fuck you,” Njada said flatly. “Neither Vignar nor I would have violated Jorrvaskr’s sanctity to harm a whelp… even if she’s the granddaughter of a lying coward.”

“ _You_ may not have, but I assure you Sigdrifa would,” Irkand reminded her. “I know the Stormsword only too well.”

Vignar grunted. “You have a point.”

Kodlak sighed again. “Ria, you’ve earned your sword. If you’d come to me and asked for discretion, the Circle would have obliged knowing the political situation. But because you lied by omission… You can’t call yourself a Companion. I’m sorry.”

Ria flushed darkly but it was a measure of Jorrvaskr’s training that she acquiesced with a nod. “I understand. It wasn’t malice or manipulation. It was… good to just be Ria, not Akaviria Mara Nona Medea. No matter what, I will treasure that.”

“As for you, Irkand…” Kodlak sighed a third time. “I _was_ going to send you on your Proving. But it seems you need to learn more of trust, honesty and honour towards your Shield-Siblings. So you’ll be a whelp for at least six more months.”

Vilkas snorted. “He’ll need twice that at least.”

Irkand reminded himself that punching Vilkas in his smug handsome arrogant face would be socially unacceptable, even if it would be personally satisfying. “Very well, Kodlak. I stand by my actions though. I made oaths before I came to Jorrvaskr and I intend to keep them.”

“Noted,” Kodlak said wearily. “We’re done here.”

Irkand accompanied Ria to the whelps’ quarters to help her pack. “Do you need an escort to Haafingar?” he asked gently. “Solitude’s probably the safest place for you.”

“I think you better stay in Whiterun. Vilkas wants a chance to kick you out of Jorrvaskr.” Ria sighed and began to shove clothing into a satchel. “How can Nord honour be so hard to define?”

“Damned if I know,” Irkand admitted wryly. “By Cyrod honour, our actions made sense.”

“I know.” Ria’s tone was frustrated. “I see where Kodlak was coming from though. I did lie by omission.”

“We both did.” Irkand picked up a pair of boots. “I hope you can talk some sense into the Elder Council. Callaina’s not an enemy.”

“But she isn’t a friend.” Ria paused in the act of putting the boots into the bag. “It’s… understandable. I’m relieved she hasn’t decided to proclaim herself as a Septim. That… well, I know we didn’t get all of your father’s supporters, and a lot of moderate Nords would march under the banner of a Septim who’s married to a respected Jarl like Balgruuf.”

“It would unite the Empire,” Irkand agreed softly. “But I doubt Callaina would want the stress. She has enough on her plate with Alduin.”

“If only I could be so certain Balgruuf felt the same way,” Ria said wryly. “He’d make a damned good Emperor.”

Irkand shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. The man does seem competent… and unless he’s a good actor, I think he does care about Callaina. She deserves that much.”

“I never said she didn’t,” Ria said before returning to her packing.


	27. Obstructions and Obstacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Chapters are going to be erratic and choppy for the next week or so as I had to take some leave from uni for medical issues, so the muse isn’t working with me.

“Ugh. It’s Noctis Mede. I’m betting dear old Armand suggested he become a decoy Emperor,” Rustem observed as they watched the finely robed Cyrod cross the bridge from windmill to Emperor’s Tower from the roof of a nearby building. “Astrid’s plan isn’t as fool-proof as she thought.”

“Is he anywhere near the line of succession?” Nazir asked curiously.

Rustem snorted. “Only if the rest of the Medes and Marei were to be afflicted with madness, stupidity and an entire host of plagues courtesy of Peryite. And even then, the Elder Council would put Mede’s arse-wiper on the Ruby Throne before Noctis.”

“Damn,” the Crown said. “That is bad. So we aren’t going through with Astrid’s plan?”

“Fuck no. It’s a stupid one. I opened the wax seal on Motierre’s letter and I’m pretty damned sure someone – probably Maro, who was more competent than I realised – figured out the order of targets. Motierre’s an idiot and Astrid’s a bigger one for not guessing it’s a trap.”

“She won’t take well to that.”

“Of course not. She’s a fucking Shieldmaiden and most of them are control freaks.” Rustem studied Noctis and his Penitus Oculatus escort one last time before giving a slow evil smile. “There is, however, something we can do while we’re here. Would you believe that Rikke’s given us a few jobs?”

“You, working for the Legion?” Nazir sounded shocked.

“Me, removing several inconveniences that threaten my family,” Rustem corrected mildly. “If you feel bad about it, take the Jaree-Ra job. Anything that fucks up Imperial shipping serves Hammerfell.”

“I could do that. You know he’s a slimy piece of shit, right?”

“That’s why you kill him and his sister and all the Blackblood crew, then turn their heads in to Falk Firebeard at the Blue Palace,” Rustem pointed out. “Two birds, one stone.”

“Very well.” Nazir paused with a sardonic grin. “Try not to die.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Erikur Many-Ships was a wealthy young hereditary Thane of Haafingar whose honour could be measured in a fingernail’s width. He liked to use his influence to abuse his enemies, enrich himself and pretty much act like a prick. Him and Siddgeir were pretty good friends and since Siddgeir had lost his Hold, Erikur was putting him up. Rustem smiled. Two birds, one stone.

By dawn the terrible news of a housefire near the Blue Palace would be known across the city as a pair of Redguards crossed the harbour to the Pale and nominal safety. Oh no, how terrible. What a shame.

…

Callaina sliced her palm and let the blood drip onto the blood seal, raising the enigmatic face of Reman Cyrodiil to reveal the door to Sky Haven Temple. Beside her was Madanach, the camp’s Briarheart, Lydia and Jenassa. She’d have brought Delphine but a Talos-worshipping Blade might have been pushing her luck, even among kin.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Madanach breathed. “No one’s ever breached this before.”

“Sky Haven Temple was always meant to be the home of the Last Dragonborn,” Callaina said softly. “But I suppose that’s changed now.”

They trooped into the dank, dim interior of the ancient Akaviri Temple and Callaina cast Firebolt on the braziers, activating ancient spells to illuminate the area. Alduin’s Wall, the sum of all dragonlore known to the Dragonguard, was thrown into stark relief. Esbern’s notes from the Cloud Ruler archives jogged her memory.

“Okay, so first relief is Alduin being a tyrannical arsehole and the last relief is the Last Dragonborn kicking his scaly arse back to whence it came,” she said, nodding to the two images. “The middle one… well, that’s three warriors facing Alduin. I’m pretty sure they’re the Three Tongues. Those tendrils from their mouths to bind Alduin’s wings… I’m guessing it’s some kind of Shout.”

She cast Candlelight and peered along every nook and cranny, finding nothing but the pitted surface of ancient sculpture. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The sum of all Akaviri dragonlore and the stupid bastards _didn’t even what fucking Shout_ the Three Tongues used. Fuck my life.”

“So what, we’re doomed then?” asked Brochan the Briarheart.

“No. I just need to persuade Master Let’s-Sit-On-A-Kynareth-Damned-Rock Arngeir to teach me it, and given that the old stories state the Three Tongues weren’t beloved of the dragons and the feeling was entirely mutual, he’ll blather on about hate being bad or something.” Callaina knuckled her eyes. “Seven _fucking_ circles of Oblivion.”

“You could petition Hermaeus-Mora for assistance,” Madanach suggested. “He probably knows it.”

“There was a Dragonborn named Miraak – some say he was the first – who fell for that,” Callaina told him. “It ended up in a brawl that broke Solstheim away from mainland Skyrim when a Dragon Priest beat his arse. I’d rather not be doomed to Apocrypha if you please.”

“Just a suggestion, cousin’s granddaughter. What about your own foremother?”

“Aurelia Northstar?” Callaina paused. “That… may not be a bad idea. But the price of Her help is insanity. If Arngeir refuses to help me and the other option is the Woodland Man, I’ll speak to Her.”

Madanach nodded soberly. “I understand. I don’t envy you your task.”

“I’ll trade you,” Callaina said dryly. “You fight Alduin and I’ll liberate the Reach.”

The King in Rags grinned at her. “Sweet talk that man of yours into a few trade embargos and it might just happen.”

Callaina looked off into the distance wistfully. “I couldn’t think of anything that would piss off my mother _and_ Mede the more.”

Brochan gave a low evil chuckle. “Do it. If these are the last days, let the Reach be free.”

“Markarth’s so rotten a few assassinations would topple it like a rotten king-post,” Jenassa agreed cheerfully. “I’ve been neglecting my art, patron. Please, indulge me in this.”

“So long as Uncle Balgruuf’s trade isn’t affected, he won’t care,” Lydia noted. “However, I’m not sure if the Reach can stand alone. Madanach, I’m not saying it because I’m a lowlander, I’m saying it as the niece of a powerful Jarl who’s grown up among trade and politics.”

Madanach held up his hand as Brochan frowned. “Go on, Lydia.”

“Have you considered installing a Jarl who’s sympathetic to your cause?” Lydia continued thoughtfully. “Maybe Argis the Bulwark or someone else?”

“Argis would be too obvious,” Madanach said slowly. “But… I might have someone. As an added bonus, it will piss off Sigdrifa _and_ Titus Mede.”

Callaina arched her brows in silent enquiry and the King in Rags just grinned.


	28. Nightmares in Dawnstar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Yes, I’m inconsistent with Aurelia Northstar’s granddad’s name. No, I don’t care.

“It was once called Nightcaller Temple,” Erandur said gravely. “A cult of Vaermina made its home there.”

Egil peered through the light snow at the structure before them. “You were one of them, weren’t you?”

“I… How?” Erandur’s voice was raw with shock.

“I’ve been trained as a Vigilant and you seem very personally invested in this.”

The Dunmer sighed and nodded. “I was. When the Orcs attacked, I was charged with unleashing the Miasma. But I fled before I could let it take me. I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to atone for this.”

“So. We’re dealing with Vaermina.” Egil touched his Amulet of Stendarr. “Aside from the Miasma and maddened Orcs, anything else I need to know about?”

“I don’t know. It’s been nearly two and a half centuries.” Erandur touched his own Amulet of Mara and murmured a prayer. “May our gods be with us.”

“They will be.”

It was rare for Nords to practice magic but with a Tongue father and a mother who used any weapon that came to her hand, Egil had learned a few spells even before he’d come to the Vigilants and been trained extensively in Restoration by Keeper Carcette. Bjarni knew a few more, mostly minor Dunmer magics learned from sailors, but one they’d both learned was Calm. The ability to stop someone’s rage was too useful to pass up. So on entering Nightcaller Temple and realising the Orcs and cultists were still fighting each other, he cast Calm on a mer in Orcish Warchief armour. “We’re not your enemies!” he called out. “Don’t attack us.”

“Who in Malacath’s name are you?” he growled.

“Egil Storm-Born, Priest of Stendarr, and Erandur, Priest of Mara,” Egil answered. “We’re here to destroy the Skull of Corruption.”

“Storm-Born?” the chief asked, almost in amusement. “My youngest boy fell in love with a Shieldmaiden named Aurelia Thunderstorm. You Nords and your Storms.”

“My father’s Stormcloak and my mother’s Stormsword,” Egil admitted ruefully. “She was a Shieldmaiden of Talos herself.”

“And you worship Stendarr?”

“I was fostered with the Vigilance and came to prefer Him to Talos.”

“Tarlak gro-Mashog,” Erandur said softly. “He was the chief of a nearby stronghold called Mashog Kahn. The cult drove him and his warriors mad with nightmares from the Skull of Corruption.”

“Isn’t Tarlak the name of the current ‘King of Orsinium’?” Egil asked him softly.

“Yes. Mashog Yar was founded by Agol gro-Mashog early in the Fourth Era.” Erandur gave him a sideways look. “Agol was the father of the Hero of Kvatch, Aurelia Northstar.”

By now the cultists were all dead and Tarlak growled something in Orcish to the remaining warriors. “You know a lot, priest of Mara.”

“I was taken from my family as a child and raised by the cult. I escaped the first chance I could get,” Erandur admitted. “If you want my life as vengeance, I only ask that you wait until I’ve banished the Skull of Corruption.”

“We’re death-sworn. Your friends drove us mad and we killed all the women and children in the stronghold,” Tarlak said bitterly. “There is only one way we can atone for that.”

“And you’ll have that atonement. Erandur’s trying to atone for something too,” Egil told him.

Tarlak nodded. “Fine. Let’s clear out the trash, Storm-Born.”

What followed was nothing short of butchery as the surviving Orcs executed the cultists. Erandur looked sick – well, he’d known many of these people and now he was a Priest of Mara, who hated violence. Egil watched calmly, hardened by years of combat. Mercy wasn’t always soft.

Their advance was stalled by a barrier that prevented entrance to the lower levels. “The Dream-Barrier!” Erandur exclaimed. “You can only get past it with the Dreamstride and-“

“It’s powered by Daedric energies,” Egil interrupted as he lifted his mace. “See the soul gem? Necromantic energy binds it. Thankfully, we Vigilants have ways around that.”

Golden light wreathed around his arm and mace as heavenly chimes rang in the air. Then, with a sound like a great brazen ball ringing through the entire tower, Egil struck it and closed his eyes against the sudden burst of light. Even so, it shone red through his lids.

“Malacath’s nuts,” Tarlak swore.

“Mara’s mercy,” Erandur said in astonished agreement.

There were more cultists down below, including two – clad in the robes of High Priests – guarding the Skull of Corruption.

“Veren, Thorek,” Erandur greeted sadly.

“Casimir,” sneered the Nord. “You ran away like a coward.”

“Yes, I did,” Erandur admitted. “Mara has forgiven me. She would forgive you too, if you were to win your freedom from Vaermina.”

“You have one chance to surrender the Skull to us, so that it stops haunting the people of Dawnstar, if you want neither me nor Erandur to destroy you with it,” Egil warned. “Stendarr offers you this one chance.”

Veren’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Go to Oblivion, _Priest of Stendarr_.”

“It won’t be me rotting in Oblivion,” Egil said softly, casting Stendarr’s Aura around himself. Dedicated Daedric cultists could be harmed by the spell.

Between an Orcish chief, a Vigilant of Stendarr and a Benevolent of Mara, the conclusion was foregone, and when Thorek breathed his last Erandur broke down and wept. Egil gave Tarlak a warning glance before going to examine the Skull of Corruption. He’d never been this close to a Daedric artefact before and he could feel the energy roiling off it.

Erandur wiped his eyes and climbed the stairs. “Lady Mara gave me a ritual to banish this thing. Stay back.”

“What will you do now?” Egil asked Tarlak softly as they obeyed.

“I’m still death-sworn. I suppose me and the survivors will find something big and try to kill it to give glory to Malacath.” Tarlak sighed. “I used to wield Volendrung, you know that?”

“I didn’t.” Egil sighed himself. “My half-sister is your… great-great-great-great-granddaughter, if I’ve got my lineages right.”

“The Shieldmaidens got over themselves? I remember they expelled Aurelia for marrying Agol.” Tarlak sighed again. “I heard the Dunmer telling you something about their kid Aurelia. Why wasn’t she given a good Orcish name… or even a Nord one?”

“Cyro-Nords, particularly those from Colovia, are pretty traditionalist and so the women were named for the clan with a secondary name to differentiate them from everyone else, I think. My half-sister’s Aurelia Callaina, but she goes by Callaina Broken-Blade. Agol’s daughter Aurelia Northstar helped Martin Septim defeat Mehrunes Dagon and apparently became an aspect of Sheogorath after he died. I’ve heard a few Orcs from Narzulbur call her Malacath’s Hunts-Wife.”

“I’ve missed a lot of history, I see,” Tarlak observed. “So Mashog Kahn was rebuilt as Mashog Yar by Agol. I always thought he was chief material.”

“Your namesake is the King of Orsinium,” Egil told him. “Agol’s line has risen to prominence among Nord and Orc alike. My half-sister’s the consort of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun… and the Last Dragonborn.”

“Consort? She’s not good enough to be his wife?” Tarlak’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“She’s a little too busy killing Alduin World-Eater to get married right about now,” Egil said dryly. “There’s a thought – go find a dragon and kill it. Even Malacath should be impressed and you’ll help your descendant.”

“Dragons are back? Finally, a worthy death.” Tarlak slapped Egil on the shoulder, sending him staggering. “For a Priest of Stendarr, you’re not so bad, kid.”

“Thanks,” Egil said, rubbing his shoulder.

Erandur finished banishing the Skull of Corruption and rejoined them. “It’s finished,” he said wearily.

“Good. You and I can tell Skald we’ve mended the problem. What will you do now?”

“I’d planned to spend the rest of my life here in atonement but…” Erandur sighed. “The north has very few priests, and most of those won’t minister to non-Nords. I think I’ll open a shrine to Mara in the Pale, if Skald will let me.”

“He will. If he won’t, come to Windhelm. The Grey Quarter could use someone to minister to them and wean them away from heathen gods.”

Erandur gave him a wry glance. “Egil, I’m not a missionary. I won’t pick fights with the Three Good Daedra unless I must.”

After they’d farewelled Tarlak and the surviving Orcs, Egil and Erandur returned to Dawnstar. “Go and clear out the Tower of the Dawn,” Egil ordered one of Frorkmar’s chief lieutenants. “There’s plenty of useable items up there that Dawnstar could use.”

“Of course, Lord Egil,” the woman said with a salute.

When they entered the White Hall, they were confronted with a bloodied Jorleif, his arm in a sling and his eyes dull with fatigue. “Praise the Nine,” the Steward of Eastmarch blurted. “You’re alive!”

“Let me tend to your wounds,” Erandur said quickly, going to his side. “What in Mara’s name happened?”

Jorleif’s expression was sick. “The Stormsword’s gone mad. She killed Ulfric and Galmar with some ebony katana, then started on the other officers of the court. By the Nine, Egil, we need you to stop her.”

Egil stared at him for a moment before he started bellowing for Frorkmar and the other Stormcloak officers. He should have realised what was going on when she sent the axe to Callaina. May Stendarr have mercy on them all.


	29. Anathema To All True Nords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Since I’ve dropped uni for the semester due to some medical issues, my mental health and muse have perked up enough to handle the political clusterfuck that is this arc of the story. Enjoy.

Balgruuf had just entered the Great Hall for his weekly audience with the folk of his Hold when three messengers were presented to him by a nervous Proventus Avenicci. One was Bjarni Ulfricsson in Stormcloak bearskin officer armour wearing the dark blue of Falkreath, the second was a tall blonde woman clad in fine chainmail with a silver brooch of crossed daggers, and the third was Ulfric’s own Steward Jorleif, his arm in a sling. “This is an interesting array of guests,” he observed after glancing at each of them. “What brings them here?”

“None of them have told me, my lord,” Proventus said cautiously. “None of them are of a rank for me to dismiss lightly though.”

Balgruuf nodded. “Go and tell the folk of my Hold audience will be delayed for a couple hours. I have a suspicion this is going to be important.”

“As you will, my lord.” Proventus bowed and scurried out with a relieved expression.

“We might as well have an early lunch,” Balgruuf told his three guests. “None of you look like you’ve eaten yet.”

The blonde inclined her head. “My thanks, Jarl Balgruuf. You are as gracious and kind as your consort. I am Mjoll the Lioness, Thane of the Rift by Jarl Laila’s command and Callaina’s own grace.”

“I’ve heard of you. I thought it was shrieks of a dragon on the wind, but instead it must have been Maven Black-Briar’s outrage at you becoming a Thane,” Balgruuf answered dryly.

Mjoll’s grin was savage. “Or maybe it was her own sins that came to haunt her. Someone snuck into Black-Briar Lodge, cut her into four pieces, and nailed them to each wall of the house.”

“By the Nine, has the entire world gone mad?” Jorleif blurted. “First Sigdrifa cuts down Ulfric and Galmar and-“

_“What?”_ Bjarni demanded, his basso rumble overriding Jorleif’s question and Mjoll’s answer.

_Well, some chickens have come home to roost,_ Balgruuf thought in satisfaction, though he kept his expression calm.

“Your mother’s fallen to the paranoia that afflicts the Kreathling royal line,” Jorleif said, ashen-faced. “She cut down your father and Galmar, then went after me and Wuunferth. If Wuunferth hadn’t Conjured an Atronach, I wouldn’t have escaped. She wielded some ebony katana and…”

He wiped his eyes. “Your brother was in the Pale. I alerted Kai in Winterhold and then rode to the Pale. Egil was mustering the Stormcloak militia when I left. He commanded me to come to Whiterun and ask for the Dragonborn’s assistance, if she’ll give it.”

“Callaina’s chasing down the Shout which defeated Alduin at the Battle of the Three Tongues,” Bjarni said grimly. “Jarl Ralof of Falkreath will send what assistance he has. But if Mother holds Windhelm, it’s going to be an ugly siege.”

“Laila too will come,” promised Mjoll immediately. “Sigdrifa cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”

Balgruuf nodded, inhaling deeply. “For this, it will be the sea-death. She deserves no less.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Bjarni said, his face pale. “But even with our warriors, we’re still outnumbered. Mother’s spent two decades seeding the Old Holds – and other Holds – with warbands of ‘bandits’ and possibly even a few necromancers. She’ll either summon them… or command them to wreak havoc when we besiege Windhelm.”

“Talos have mercy on us all, you’re right,” Jorleif agreed in a harsh whisper. “What can we do?”

“I presume you’ve heard somewhat of my recent actions in the Reach,” Bjarni continued stonily. “They’re true. I killed Thongvor Silver-Blood, Kettir Red-Shoal and the Stormcloak militia for their crimes against my kinsfolk among the Reachfolk. Do you know Madanach’s my grandmother’s cousin? How can the Stormcloaks demand freedom to worship our own gods and follow our own ways when we can’t even give it to someone else?”

“Your brother might disagree with that,” Jorleif said softly. “I’m… Talos have mercy…”

“I doubt He will. Mother’s very much in His mould,” Bjarni disagreed. “Callaina was right when she sent me to Glenmoril and Grandma Catriona was right when she sent me to Markarth to free Madanach. What we demand from others, we must give to them.”

Balgruuf accepted a cup of mead from Fianna as the servants laid out a simple ploughman’s lunch on the table. “Unleash Madanach on the Stormsword? That’s not a bad idea. But what’s to stop him from committing crimes on the Eastmarchers?”

Bjarni smiled thinly. “Madanach is a realist, I suspect. He wants his people to have the same rights as any Nord, not to indulge himself in bloody vengeance upon those. But I was going to suggest letting the Forsworn destroy the militias in the Holds. Most of their officers are veterans of the Markarth Incident. That will free up our warriors to besiege Windhelm if it comes to that.”

As he sipped his mead, Balgruuf realised everyone was looking at him expectantly. Well, he was the senior nobleman here. “Very well. Do it. As Jarl of Whiterun, I declare the Stormsword nithing, anathema to all a true Nord stands for. All who support her are traitors to their people. It is the duty of all Nords to expunge such a stain from our land.”

He set his cup down on the table. “Have your Jarls summon two hundred warriors each to Whiterun by the end of next week. That includes Madanach. We’ll need his military experience as well as his Forsworn. Most of us are more used to trading than raiding, after all.”

“Will the Dragonborn be joining us?” Jorleif asked anxiously.

Balgruuf shook his head. “No. Callaina’s priority is the dragons… and to be honest, I don’t want her to have her mother’s blood on her hands. That’s why she never responded to the axe. Callaina would rather be thought of as a coward than a kinslayer.”

Bjarni and Jorleif exchanged surprised glances while Mjoll nodded in agreement. “Aye,” the Lioness said. “She’s a woman of great courage and compassion. I understand why the gods made her Dragonborn.”

“I always did,” Balgruuf said softly. “And that is why I’ll keep her hands clean of the Stormsword’s blood.”


	30. The Throat of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse.

“I need to learn the Shout used to defeat Alduin,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Alduin’s Wall didn’t hold it.”

“No. I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it. It is called ‘Dragonrend,’ but its Words of Power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice,” Arngeir answered, as she feared he would.

“Oh?” Callaina asked carefully.

“It was created by those who had lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin's Dragon Cult. Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout. When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. In order to learn and use this Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself.” Arngeir sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I once carried such hate and anger in me. I was proud, certain I was destined to defeat my enemies with the power of the Thu’um. I learned otherwise.”

Callaina studied him closely, recognising the high forehead and the beaky prow of a Colovian nose and even the bright blue eyes so much like her father’s. “Julius Martin.”

“Arngeir,” he corrected. “I believed I was the Last Dragonborn because I found it so easy to learn the Thu’um. I had the dragon blood but not the dragon’s soul. The Greybeards taught me humility.”

Callaina inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, feeding her anger into that breath and releasing it on the wind. Screaming obscenities at her great-grandfather would change nothing. “You could have told the Blades you were alive,” she finally said. “Things might have been different.”

“Wulfgar told me what happened to the Blades,” Arngeir confirmed gravely. “My presence or absence, knowledge or its lack, would have changed nothing. They were doomed from their own arrogance and love of power. I know that only too well.”

“There’s at least one who’s still alive, and for the most part, she hasn’t been a complete pain in the arse,” Callaina said dryly.

“Do not be so sure about that. Beware - the Blades may claim to serve the Dragonborn, but they do not. They never have,” Arngeir retorted. “My own mother was bitter that Martin died and I was kept from my birthright. She went mad from it and became the Grandmaster for a time before giving the task to Baurus. Marius did what he could but the corruption seeped into the Blades, making them would-be kingmakers and puppet-masters. When I left, I gave Marius a task-“

“-Which he’s doing admirably,” Callaina interrupted. “But the sins of the Blades are irrelevant. I just want to defeat Alduin. Don’t you?”

“What I want is irrelevant. This Shout was used once before was it not? And here we are again. Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated? Those who overthrew him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning, they did not stop it.” Arngeir sighed once more. “If the world is meant to end, so be it. Let it end and be reborn.”

“If the gods wanted the world to end, I wouldn’t be Dragonborn,” Callaina said softly. “I’ll tell you what I told the Stormcloaks, what I told the Thalmor, what I told the Legion and even what I told the Blade – help me or get out of my way.”

Arngeir shook his head. “Not until you return to the path of wisdom, Dragonborn.”

“Arngeir,” spoke Master Einarth. “Rok los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rok fen tinvaak Paarthurnax.”

“I swear, by Kynareth who gave me my Voice and Akatosh who gave me my soul, I will not harm Paarthurnax,” Callaina promised. “I made it abundantly clear to Delphine I wouldn’t kill dragons willy-nilly. What more do you want from me?”

“Dragonborn... wait. Forgive me. I was... intemperate. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgement. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty. The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make.” Arngeir’s face was ashen, his gaze too bright. “You weren't ready. You still aren't ready. But thanks to the Blades, you now have questions that only Paarthurnax can answer.”

He turned for the doors. “Follow me. Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path. Come. We will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.”

She learned a Shout to clear the skies themselves. Jenassa and Lydia had remained down below in Ivarstead because Callaina knew High Hrothgar was probably the safest place in Skyrim. Now, she had to dare the peak of Monahven itself to speak with Alduin’s once-second.

She’d toughened up over these past couple months but even so, hiking up the last bit of path to the mountain’s top, interspersed with Shouting to disperse the serpentine winds that curled around its peak, left her breathless by the end of the journey. Falling to her knees, panting, she watched the old grey grizzled dragon land before her.

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah... my mountain?” he rumbled, his faded gaze curious.

“You... know… who… I… am,” she panted.

“Yes. Vahzah. You speak true, Dovahkiin. Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech.” He waited for her to regain her breath and stand.

“I’m guessing it’s pretty lonely up here. Arngeir and the others don’t strike me as scintillating conversationalists,” Callaina finally observed.

“Evenaar Bahlok. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar... denial of the greater,” Paarthurnax answered thoughtfully. “There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov.”

He turned to face the clear snow before the curved, featureless Word Wall. “By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin! Yol...Toor...Shul! A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do.”

He breathed out a Word – TOOR – on the snowy ground and Callaina realised it linked into the Yol that she’d learned from a rubbing the Companions had taken of some place in Whiterun. Then her understanding increased as Paarthurnax gifted her his knowledge of the Word’s meaning.

“Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!” he commanded.

“YOL TOOR!” Callaina roared, fire belching out to bathe Paarthurnax in its warmth.

“Aaah... yes! Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind,” Paarthurnax declared in pleasure.

“I’ll never need a flint and tinder again,” Callaina said dryly, earning a hot chuckle from the dragon.

“So. You have made your way here, to me. No easy task for a joor... mortal. Even for one of Dovah Sos. Dragonblood. What would you ask of me?” Paarthurnax said as he settled down in front of her.

“I need to learn Dragonrend,” she said softly. “I know it’s a terrible Shout, but the fault lies not in the Words but how they were said. Or that’s what my mother used to tell me before she gave me a hiding for arguing with her.”

“Alduin komeyt tiid. What else would you seek? Alduin and Dovahkiin return together.” Paarthurnax sighed wistfully. “But I do not know the Thu'um you seek. Krosis. It cannot be known to me. Your kind - joorre - mortals - created it as a weapon against the dov… the dragons. Our hadrimme, our minds cannot even… comprehend its concepts.”

“Kynareth’s winds,” Callaina breathed. “I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.”

“Kaan shaped the Voice she gave Bronne… Nords. All of you Shout when you unleash the Grah-Graat, the Battle-Cry, on your enemies. Akatosh may decree when one has a dragon’s soul, but it is Kaan who chooses who may or may not Speak.”

“Saint Alessia as opposed to Wulfharth,” Callaina mused. “I think I understand.”

“First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu'um?” the dragon asked.

“I need to stop Alduin,” Callaina answered candidly.

“Yes. Alduin... Zeymah. The elder brother. Gifted, grasping and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why? Why must you stop Alduin?” the dragon pressed.

“Because if the gods wanted the world to end, I wouldn’t be here,” she countered.

“Pruzah. As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Perhaps this world is simply the Egg of the next kalpa? Lein vokiin? Would you stop the next world from being born?” Paarthurnax’s gaze was curious.

“The next world isn’t my concern. Only this one is,” she told him frankly.

“Paaz. A fair answer. Ro fus... maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past Time's end... Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis. Those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily, the wind of his breath blowing her hair and skirts back. “But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven – what you name Throat of the World?”

“Mountain, away from temptation, mostly non-flammable,” Callaina answered dryly.

“True,” he chuckled. “But few now remember that this was the very spot where Alduin was defeated by the ancient Tongues. Vahrukt unslaad... perhaps none but me now remember how he was defeated.”

“The Akaviri knew. They carved it on Alduin’s Wall.” Callaina allowed some chagrin to enter her voice. “They could have at least carved the damned Shout on the bloody thing and saved me the trip!”

“Yes and no. Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to... defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel – the Elder Scroll. They used it to... cast him adrift on the currents of Time…” Paarthurnax sighed and shook his head.

“An Elder Scroll. Yes, what could possibly go wrong fucking around with an unknowable force of time and fate that fucks with someone’s sanity?” Callaina asked sardonically.

“Not intentionally. Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. Meyye. I knew better,” Paarthurnax observed. “Tiid bo amativ. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when.”

Callaina looked apprehensively up at the sky. “I should have brought some friends.”

“Tiid krent. Time was... shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that Kel, that Elder Scroll back here... to the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound... With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to... cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.” Paarthurnax tilted his head. “Return it here, to the Tiid-Ahraan. Then... Kelle vomindok. Nothing is certain with such things... But I believe the Scroll's bond with Tiid-Ahraan will allow you a... a seeing, a vision of the moment of its creation. Then you will feel - know - Dragonrend, in the power of its first expression. You will see them... wuth fadonne... my friends - Hakon, Gormlaith, Felldir.”

“The Three Tongues,” Callaina said softly. “I saw their likenesses on Alduin’s Wall.”

“The first mortals that I taught the Thu'um - the first Tongues. The leaders of the rebellion against Alduin. They were mighty, in their day. Even to attempt to defeat Alduin... sahrot hunne. The Nords have had many heroes since, but none greater.” Paarthurnax sighed again. “I see Felldir’s eyes in your gaze. He was kin to the Falmer, the snow elves.”

“That’d be right. Another ancestor to leave me a mess to clean up,” Callaina said ruefully.

Paarthurnax chuckled wearily. “Perhaps. I warned them against such a rash action. Even I could not foresee its consequences. Nus ni hon. They would not listen.”

“Their hatred of Alduin blinded them,” Callaina said in sudden realisation. “They wanted him gone forever.”

“Yes. There were a few of us that rebelled against Alduin's thur... his tyranny. We aided the humans in his overthrow. But they did not trust us. Ni ov. Their inner councils were kept hidden from us. I was far from here on the day of Alduin's downfall. But all dov felt the... sundering of Time itself,” Paarthurnax agreed. “Perhaps, Dovahkiin, you will set right again.”

“Well, shit,” she sighed. “Off to find an Elder Scroll. Here’s to hoping it isn’t in Cyrodiil. I don’t think I’ll have enough time to go there and come back here.”

“Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin. Your blood will show you the way.”


	31. Even A Dragon Can't Kill Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of suicide. I figure dragons have a certain amount of prescience, so Alduin’s throwing the odd dragon Callaina’s way.

“That Storm-Born boy wasn’t joking when he said dragons were back,” Jorug, Tarlak’s middle son, reported with a big toothy grin. “There’s one hovering over Alftand.”

“Well, you heard him,” Tarlak announced as he leapt to his feet. “Our glorious death has arrived, boys! Let’s show this oversized lizard that no one can best an Orc!”

They’d camped outside of Dawnstar for the past week, trying to figure out where to find a dragon and apologising to Malacath for taking so long to find a glorious death. The Lord of the Bloody Oath had sent them no sign in the birds or the waves that Tarlak could read, for such things were the province of the wisewomen, but apparently heard their prayers all the same. Even from here, Tarlak could see the flying dragon breathing fire over the copper spires of Alftand.

Orsimer were capable of a loping run at need and so it didn’t take them too long to arrive on the scene. A few humans and mer, one of them Erandur, were fighting off the dragon. The priest held a magical Ward while the short black-haired woman in a drab homespun dress spat flame back at the dragon. Another Dunmer, this one female, fired arrows at it while a black-haired Nord woman in Shieldmaiden armour smashed it in the face with a shield. Today just wasn’t going to be the dragon’s day.

“Embrace death!” Tarlak cried out, giving himself to the rage that was Malacath’s gift to all Orcs. His world turned red and all that mattered was the sound of his warhammer on bone and flesh.

When his vision cleared, Tarlak wasn’t standing in the Ashpits but instead next to the shattered skeleton of a dragon, the short black-haired woman’s pupils glowing red-green like a sabre cat’s. Erandur said something but she pointed to her throat, shaking her head, and the Shieldmaiden answered for her.

“Orcs,” noted the female Dunmer, not lowering her bow. “Death-sworn, from the looks of them.”

Tarlak looked over his shoulder to see two dead and five still standing. “Jorug and Dag feast with Malacath,” he said with a sigh. “Not even a dragon can kill me.”

“Orcs have something like Sovngarde?” the Shieldmaiden asked in some surprise.

“We go to the Ashpits,” Tarlak explained cordially. Mashog Kahn had never fought with the women of Yngvild, though it had come close when Aurelia Thunderstorm ran off with Agol back to her native Cyrodiil. “Malacath gives us a life free of care and sorrow in His stronghold, where we may follow His Code as it should be.”

“’Every man is a chief, every woman a wisewoman’,” quoted the short black-haired woman in a low husky contralto almost like an Orc’s. “’Meat and ale on the table, weapons of the finest orichalcum and ebony to our hands’.”

“You know our ways,” Tarlak said approvingly.

“Some of my ancestors were Orcs,” she answered. “Callaina Broken-Blade, consort to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun, Last Dragonborn, great-great-granddaughter of Aurelia Northstar, Madgoddess and Hunts-Wife to Malacath.”

“Tarlak gro-Mashog. I was Aurelia Northstar’s grandfather,” the old chief told her with a sigh. “Egil Storm-Born told me I’d find a good death following you.”

Callaina closed her eyes, muttered something about how many more bloody relatives were going to come out of the woodwork, and then nodded. “We’re going to Alftand. How… forgive me, but how did you survive over two centuries?”

“Cult of Vaermina and its damned Miasma,” Tarlak growled. “Egil and Erandur freed us.”

She nodded again. “He said he’d been involved in an exorcism.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Tarlak said dryly, giving the mer a pointed glance. “Did he mention he used to be part of the cult?”

“No. It didn’t come up in the conversation,” the priest replied as dryly. “I thought I’d lend Callaina a hand. She’s at a critical junction in the Prophecy of the Dragonborn and none of her allies are particularly good healers.”

“’Critical junction’, he calls it,” Callaina said with a sigh. “I need to go through a Dwemer ruin, use a tool given to me by a crazy scholar who’s paid one too many visits to Apocrypha, find an Elder Scroll and then climb the highest mountain in Skyrim to read it. They say the gods give us the burdens we are fit to bear, but I think Akatosh and Kynareth have higher opinions of my abilities than I do.”

She pinched the bridge of her Cyrod nose. “The warrior’s my huscarl Lydia and the other Dunmer’s my… Jenassa, how should I describe you again?”

“Blade and shadow, silence and death – these are my arts,” intoned Jenassa. “For a modest fee, I’ll make great art for you.”

“My personal artist,” Callaina finished dryly. “They say every noble should be a patron of the arts after all.”

Tarlak turned to his mer. “Does anyone have any problems following the Dragonborn into Alftand? Centurions can be deadly foes.”

All five nodded. “Malacath put us in this path,” Kuhon agreed. “We will follow the Dragonborn until we fight Alduin. I hope he’s tougher than this dragon.”

“You want to lead me to your deaths?” Callaina asked softly.

“Vaermina cursed us to kill all the women and children in Mashog Kahn,” Tarlak told her gruffly. “If we want to see them again and earn Malacath’s pardon, we must die well. Your Nord Shieldmaiden friend will understand. Nords have always understood the need for a good death.”

“I’m a Nord too,” Callaina said softly. “You can follow me to Alftand. But I don’t know how long it’ll take to find you a good death.”

Tarlak smiled. “If nothing else, we will fight Alduin. But until then, tell me of my granddaughter. I get the impression she had an interesting life.”

“That’s… one way of putting it,” Callaina said ironically. “I’d personally use the word ‘absolute disaster’, but I prefer peace and quiet to running screaming into a battle.”

“Of course you do,” he said gently. “You’re a First-Wife. You’re the heart of your Jarl’s stronghold. I can’t say as I’m impressed with him not joining you. A chief should fight for his people.”

“My _uncle_ fights in his own way,” Lydia said testily. “He’s stopping the other Jarls from being complete idiots by fighting and sending more Nords to fill Alduin’s belly in Sovngarde.”

Callaina glanced over to Alftand. “We better get inside before it gets dark. The next few hours will be interesting.”

Tarlak inclined his head in agreement. “Don’t worry, that Elder Scroll will be in your hands before you know it.”


	32. The Boy from the Lowlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Bjarni. I was wondering if you’d planned to put roots down in Falkreath,” Madanach said with a slight smile.

“Ralof adopted me as kin,” Bjarni said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Given that my father’s dead and my mother’s gone insane…”

To the King in Rags’ credit, he didn’t _openly_ gloat. Bjarni appreciated the tact. He’d barely come to terms with the fact that his parents had done awful things to relatively innocent people… and then he got hit with the news his mother had gone insane, butchered half of Ulfric’s court, and now needed to be removed permanently. He’d never be able to demand answers of them.

“Jarl Ralof sent me a relatively polite message,” Madanach finally said after an awkward silence. “I wasn’t expecting it from one of Ulfric’s hearthmen, to be honest.”

“I told him some of what happened and he’d already been through the old Jarl’s paperwork. My mother’s family had a lot to answer for.” Bjarni sighed. “I’m here to tell you that Jarl Balgruuf is formally requesting that the Forsworn deal with the Stormsword’s ‘bandits’ in Whiterun, the Rift, the Pale, Winterhold and Falkreath while we besiege Windhelm. All loot is yours, he’ll acknowledge you as Jarl of the Reach and kinsman to his consort Callaina, and grant your folk free passage through Whiterun… which will put you in striking distance of most Holds.”

Madanach rose to his feet as several others gathered in Druadach Redoubt murmured. “Walk with me. The hill-clans and I have come to a few decisions of our own.”

Bjarni obeyed and they left the redoubt to look over the misty mountains of the Reach.

“I had a long talk to your sister and her people when they came to Karthspire and the Akaviri temple there,” Madanach finally said. “Before and after, I spoke to the Matriarchs, the Briarhearts and the clan-chiefs. A Reach free of lowland influence would be a marvellous thing, but we’ve accepted that we’re too small and too rich to be left alone.”

“Even if you were to include the western Reachfolk, it’d be true,” Bjarni agreed with a sigh. “I know Balgruuf’s offer isn’t perfect but…”

“It’s better than I expected and what we’d decided,” Madanach observed. “Are you planning to stay in Falkreath? I understand since Ralof’s your friend, but we have a need for you in the Reach, perhaps a greater one.”

“Oh?” Bjarni asked cautiously.

“Aye.” Madanach sighed. “Since my father Feredach’s time, the savvier clan-chiefs have been sending their children to marry the lesser nobility of Skyrim and High Rock, concluding alliances with Orsinium and the border Forebears of Hammerfell, and generally trying to find a peaceful means of gaining independence. The culmination of that plan was your grandmother’s marriage to Dengeir of Falkreath. It… well, it went wrong.”

“I know. Dengeir was paranoid and I think my mother inherited it,” Bjarni agreed with a sigh.

“There’s more than one royal clan among the Reachfolk. We’re Lost Valley and the other two are Silver Depths – Karthwasten – and Gold Moon – Kolskeggr. Silver Depths and Gold Moon married into each other a couple generations ago to form Stone Ways. Bothela and her descendants are that clan, they live in Markarth bar one who’s in Riften, and they’ve got three candidates for the Juniper Crown.” Madanach smiled wryly. “Not to disinherit Bryn but he’s a Nightingale of Nocturnal and priests aren’t allowed to hold secular office.”

“You plan to unite Stone Ways and Lost Valley,” Bjarni said slowly.

“I do. If you choose to return to Falkreath, I’ll send Argis the Bulwark to walk the Path of Red Eagle with Kaie and they can wed. But he’s been trained as a warrior and huscarl, not a ruler. You have… Did you ever meet Muiri?”

“She was… She lived with the Shatter-Shields in Windhelm,” Bjarni said, choosing his words carefully. “Then Friga Shatter-Shield was murdered by the Butcher and a man named Alain Dufont took advantage of Muiri’s grief to rob the place blind. Tova and Torbjorn blamed her for the loss of the family warhammer and threw her out on the streets. I’d planned to do something about it after our mission to Darkwater Crossing but…”

“But Helgen happened. Callaina told me it was pretty horrendous.” Madanach sighed again. “I want you and Muiri to walk the Path of Red Eagle.”

Bjarni blinked. “You want the son of _Ulfric Stormcloak_ to become High King?”

“Muiri would be High Queen,” corrected Madanach. “You’d be Jarl. Lydia pointed out a few home truths about our ability to remain independent, so I’m doing what I can to secure my people’s future. You shed blood for the Forsworn, lad, even when I offered you an end worthy of Sovngarde. You slew some of your mother’s greatest allies and your father’s most respected veterans. In a perfect world, I’d be High King in a free nation, but it isn’t going to happen. The Empire wouldn’t allow it.”

“Whoever becomes Jarl would have to swear fealty to the High King in the lowlands,” Bjarni finally said. “I think Balgruuf’s going for that title. He’s savvy, diplomatic and he’s got the Dragonborn on his side.”

“I was prepared to swear allegiance to the Empire, but they decided to unleash your parents on me,” Madanach said flatly. “Balgruuf isn’t perfect but he’s a sight better than Titus Mede.”

“Amen,” Bjarni agreed. “How’d the clan-chiefs take your plan?”

“There were some internal issues,” Madanach admitted. “I borrowed your sister’s friend Jenassa to sort them out while she was preparing for another trek to High Hrothgar. The ancient Akaviri were apparently useless, to hear Callaina tell it. They didn’t even know the Shout that defeated Alduin.”

“I don’t envy her the task,” Bjarni said with a sigh.

“Neither do I.” Madanach looked over the mountains and valleys of the Reach once more. “Will you walk the Path of Red Eagle with Muiri, for the good of us all?”

“I will,” Bjarni promised. “It will end in glory or it will end in Sovngarde.”

“Take the boy out of the lowlands but you can’t take the lowlands out of the boy,” Madanach observed, rolling his eyes. “Damned Nords and their damned Sovngarde.”


	33. Timely Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse, genocide, war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

Titus Mede’s voice was older and wearier than Rustem recalled, but the hint of steel still remained. The Emperor stared out across the harbour in his private quarters, back to the door, and wore his robes of office as if they’d protect him. Or maybe he considered them a fine funeral shroud.

“No, I came to kill you,” Rustem admitted easily. “I’ve already sent your funeral entourage ahead and your son will greet you in whatever slice of Oblivion awaits a man who broke so many oaths and promises.”

“Oh, you can save your sinister bravado. I'll not go to my grave whimpering like an infant. I know why you're here. I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is.” Mede turned around to face him. Then his eyes widened. _“Rustem Aurelius?”_

“Who else were you expecting?” Rustem leaned on his naginata, allowing himself a savage grin.

“What do you mean my son will greet me?” Mede demanded.

“Your idiot son tried to set Falkreath on fire and the new Jarl, Ralof Storm-Hammer, took exception to it… and incidentally saved the Brotherhood,” Rustem told him. “That trick with Noctis might have fooled Astrid but not me. I’m a little surprised Irkand isn’t here to defend you.”

“Irkand joined the Companions. As if he could ever find honour,” Mede observed.

“My brother was loyal to you,” Rustem said grimly. “I might question that choice, but you should respect what honour he had. Even Irkand deserves that much.”

“What would you know of honour?” Mede said scornfully. “I wish that I had slain the lot of you when I had the chance!”

He strode up to Rustem, jabbing his finger into his chest. “You killed my cousin! You betrayed your oaths as an Imperial citizen! You violated your marriage vows! _Who are you to speak of honour to me, Rustem Aurelius?_ ”

Rustem shoved him back one-handed. “I never claimed to have honour. I belong to Satakal, the God of Everything, the dark between the stars. I swallow worldskins so that new ones can grow.”

“In killing me, you will destroy the Empire and open the heartland of Tamriel to an invasion by the Dominion,” Mede warned after he regained his balance. “At least spare Akaviria.”

“She isn’t on my list,” Rustem said with a shrug. “But I don’t think it matters. You’ve been a bit out of touch on your boat. Callaina’s the Dragonborn and she’s getting married to Balgruuf of Whiterun. Rikke’s already clearing the way for a Nord Emperor and Empress. Die now, in vain, knowing that a Septim will once more sit upon the Ruby Throne… that is, of course, if they choose to live in Cyrodiil. Whiterun might become the new capital of the Empire. If your granddaughter is wise, she’ll bend the knee.”

“Damn you!” Mede hissed.

“I’m already damned, you dumb motherfucker. But you’ll be in the Void a long time before me.”

…

_“What do you mean Balgruuf’s mustered an army?”_

“Sigdrifa butchered Ulfric, Galmar and half of Windhelm’s court officials,” Rikke said calmly as Tullius spat out the question. “Egil sent Jorleif, Ulfric’s Steward, to Balgruuf for assistance… who’s ironically his nearest kinsman by Nord law since Callaina became his official consort. Laila Law-Giver owes Balgruuf a favour, Ralof Storm-Hammer is a cousin of Balgruuf’s on the sinister side and the Forsworn are apparently joining the show because they want the chance to kill the Stormsword. Idgrod Ravencrone will probably send soldiers because she’s Balgruuf’s sister-in-law from his previous marriage.”

Elisif, seated by the window, suddenly began to laugh. “Oh, well played. Balgruuf’s set himself up as the most powerful of the Jarls… and since he was on neither side of the civil war, Jarls from both sides will follow his lead.”

Rikke inclined her head to the Jarl of Solitude. “Indeed, Jarl Elisif. If I may be candid?”

The delicate redhead sighed. “Balgruuf will become High King. It’s inevitable. He’s handfasted to the Dragonborn, related to the Jarls of Windhelm, Falkreath and Morthal and owed a favour by the Jarl of Riften. Including his vote as Jarl of Whiterun, he has the majority of votes should a Moot be called.”

“Ralof and Egil are traitors,” Tullius growled.

“Technically, yes. But they’ve both turned on the Stormsword. It would look very bad for us if we try to prosecute them,” Rikke said softly. “Korir of Winterhold and Skald of Dawnstar will vote for any candidate Ulfric’s sons endorse, and because Egil has asked him for help, that counts as an acknowledgement Balgruuf has authority over him by Nord custom.”

“Why don’t we just give him the bloody Ruby Throne while we’re at it?” Tullius asked sarcastically.

“Well, that would be one way to restore legitimacy to the Empire by returning the Septim bloodline to it and working around the interdict on the Aurelii,” Rikke pointed out. “Failing that, one of Akaviria’s children can marry one of Callaina’s to unite the claims.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, Legate Primus?”

“I’ve operated at the same level Sigdrifa Stormsword has,” Rikke reminded him. “I wasn’t expecting Callaina to be Dragonborn _and_ politically shrewd enough to make a union with Balgruuf.”

“You did say you’d put Callaina on the Ruby Throne before Motierre,” Elisif said mildly.

_Well, I didn’t know_ that, Rikke thought wryly.

“So you’re backing Balgruuf?” Tullius asked Elisif.

She nodded with another sigh. “I’m a realist, General. Maybe in ten or twenty years I’ll be ready to be High Queen. Skyrim needs a High King who can hold his own in trade and diplomacy. If the Elder Council has a problem with that, to Oblivion with them. I must do what Torygg would have wanted, and what he wanted was Skyrim to be strong again.”

Hadvar knocked on the door to the private tower. “Sir, ma’am, my lady – the _Katariah’s_ on fire!”

_Your timing is impeccable, Rustem,_ Rikke thought in satisfaction. _Panicked commanders are more inclined to take advice… and for the Empire of Talos, I have quite a bit of it for Tullius and Akaviria._


	34. Elder Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Blackreach, my favourite place… not.

“Crimson nirnroot! I never knew such a thing existed,” Callaina observed.

“I have a friend who was a student of Sinderion’s that now lives in the Rift,” Jenassa said as she carefully harvested the little red plant. “I think she’d like to know what happened to him… and to study the nirnroot.”

Callaina nodded. “Collecting them will give us something to do while we try to find this damned Elder Scroll. There’s so many buildings…”

“The Dwemer had themselves a nice little fungus farm here,” Tarlak agreed. “And let’s not mention that dragon in their fake sun.”

“Did it count as a glorious death for Kuhon and Trag?” she asked softly.

“Of course it did. But I think I’m glad the Dwemer are dead. I’d hate to meet someone who can trap a dragon in a fake sun.”

Time meant nothing in Blackreach, the strange subterranean realm that lay under Skyrim. There were glowing veins of ore that produced empty soul gems, a myriad of fungi Callaina had no name for, entire tribes of the twisted goblinesque creatures Lydia and Jenassa called Falmer, and the untiring golden-copper automatons of the Dwemer. It was a place of wonder and of horror… and Callaina prayed that once she found the Elder Scroll, she’d never need return.

Eventually, in the southwestern part of the cavern, they found a tower that contained lenses and a button and remarkably, the skeleton of an adventurer who’d made it this far. Callaina read his journal as thoroughly as she could, put the lexicon that Septimus gave her in its slot, and then pressed buttons until each one glowed. Finally, an oval-shaped container descended once the lenses were aligned, opening to reveal a golden scroll-case.

“So that’s an Elder Scroll,” Tarlak observed. “What now?”

Callaina sighed as she collected the Scroll. “We return to the Throat of the World, I read it at the time-wound, and I learn the Shout that defeated Alduin. After that… I don’t know.”

It was dark and snowing when they emerged from Blackreach, far from Alftand and close to a bog if the familiar reek of stagnant water and rotting vegetation was anything to go by. Callaina cupped some magicka in her hand and cast Clairvoyance to find the nearest town; from the direction, it was Morthal, which she’d skirted around during her last trip to Hjaalmarch.

“We’ll have to overnight in Morthal,” Lydia said with a sigh. “Weird bog place full of weird bog people.”

“They’re cousins to the Reachfolk,” Callaina told her. “Does that make me a weird mountain person from a weird mountain place?”

Lydia grinned. “Callaina, I’ve always known you were weird. Someone with the soul of a dragon can’t be considered normal by any means.”

Morthal’s inn was called the Moorside and after listening to the ‘bard’ Lurbuk sing, Callaina began to wish she’d camped out in the bog. Everyone was whispering and eyeing a beautiful dark-haired woman in a low-cut dress whose gaze gleamed amber in the flickering firelight. “How could Hroggar move in with her the day after his wife’s death?” asked a burly Nord man of the Redguard innkeeper. “Morthal’s gone strange since that damned wizard moved in.”

“That ‘damned wizard’ is my brother, so unless you feel like drinking at home, you’ll be civil to Falion,” the innkeeper retorted mildly. “He’s the reason we haven’t been attacked by vampires, draugr or necromancers for the past few months.”

“Jonna, I…” The Nord held up his hands pacifically. “Laelette ran off to join the Stormcloaks, Hroggar’s house burns down… I don’t know what to think.”

“I know Falion’s frightening. Some of the magics the Priests of Tu’whacca deal in are considered ‘necromantic’ by the Cyrods who know nothing of our ways,” Jonna conceded with a sigh. “But they don’t come from Oblivion, but the power of the Redguard god of death. Falion isn’t your enemy. Maybe, if you ask him, you can find out if Laelette’s safe.”

“And if she isn’t?” the Nord asked in a sick voice.

“Then he can make sure she’s at rest,” Jonna said gently.

“I’m sure Laelette’s fine,” observed the dark-haired beauty in a seductive contralto. “She’s just gone to join the fight for Skyrim.”

“Callaina,” Jenassa murmured in her ear. “That one’s a vampire.”

She nodded to the Dunmer, acknowledging her statement, before clearing her throat. All eyes swung to face the motley group and Callaina drew herself up. “Can I rent some space for the night for my retinue and myself?” she asked.

Jonna smiled. “Sure. Don’t mind Lurbuk. You get used to his music in time.”

“Malacath wept,” Tarlak growled. “I’ve heard better songs from a seagull with a throat condition.”

Snickers echoed around the room as Lurbuk scowled. “I’d like to see you do better, death-sworn. I’m a bard trained at the Bards College of Solitude.”

“Uh huh,” Tarlak said sceptically.

“How much for the rooms?” Callaina asked with a sigh.

“Ten septims per room and five for floorspace,” Jonna immediately answered. “I’ve got fish stew and bread for dinner and a few flagons of ale’s included in the price.”

“We’ll take the floorspace,” Tarlak told her as Callaina counted out the coin. “The women and the priest will have the rooms.”

“How chivalrous of you,” remarked the vampire, licking her lips. “I see you’re figures of some… note.”

“I’m Callaina Broken-Blade, Thane of Whiterun and the Last Dragonborn,” Callaina answered softly. “Tarlak, Boruk, Hagga and Vikru are kinsmer on my father’s side, Lydia’s my huscarl, Jenassa’s my official painter and Father Erandur’s my spiritual adviser.”

“Welcome to Morthal,” said a handsome Nord in middle age with threads of silver in his dark hair. “I’m Aslfur, husband and Steward to Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone.”

Callaina inclined her head. “I’ll call upon your wife tomorrow. I’ve just spent the past few days in a Dwemer ruin and a bog. I’d like some sleep and a hot bath before I officially visit your court.”

Aslfur laughed. “Idgrod will understand, Callaina mac Catriona. The Ravencrone women see past the surface of things.”

“I know, but it can’t be said Balgruuf’s consort was slovenly when she attended the Jarl’s court,” Callaina said softly. “He still respects her as a kinswoman and ally.”

He nodded. “Of course. Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow.”


	35. From Patron to Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of suicide, child death and child neglect.

Jenassa had never been overburdened with what others called morality. She observed, as a child of the crooked alleyways of the Grey Quarter whose parents had been failed Morag Tong, that the finer points of honour and ethics belonged to those who had their basic needs met more readily than herself. When your stomach was full, you could concern yourself with abstract ideas of justice and other absurdities. What truly mattered was the fight for survival and in that, all things were permissible.

She dragged herself up from street urchin to street tough, then left Windhelm to pursue other career options when the Stormsword became Jarl-Regent and abused the Grey Quarter terribly. Jenassa observed that even having one’s basic needs met didn’t mean you were concerned with morality, as demonstrated by Sigdrifa’s absolute ruthlessness and treatment of civilians. The soldiers were useful, so they were fed and warmed first, and then the Nords after that as they supplied resources and soldiers; Dunmer and Argonians were forbidden from joining the Hold guard or carrying a weapon greater than a dagger or fishing spear, so they were utterly useless to her. That kind of clear-eyed self-interest was enlightening to Jenassa and while she disliked Sigdrifa on principle, she took note of the lessons and learned to treat others as potentially useful.

From street tough to bandit was a natural progression outside the city but the rewards for mugging refugees from Morrowind were scant, and when Jenassa heard of a reward offered for her current leader’s head, she killed him and turned it in for a nice sum of cash. So she went from bandit to sellsword, honing her skills in the Old Holds before coming to the prosperous city of Whiterun to find suitable employment. She learned that things could be beautiful in Balgruuf’s city and so she found artistic merit in her craft, practiced her speech to make it sound more pleasing to a patron’s ear (and claimed to be a former Morag Tong because patrons were impressed by that), and found plenty of material in the myriad bandit groups that infested the Hold to improve her skills.

Then, five years after she’d come to Whiterun, a black-haired woman with a thundering voice hired her to work on the greatest canvas of them all – dragons. Daughter to the Stormsword, survivor of multiple cruelties and neglect at the hands of her enemies… and as completely unlike Jenassa as one could be and still exist. Callaina, in defiance of all the truths Jenassa had learned in her life, still held to ideals of honour and morality and even compassion, which struck the womer as the most useless of ‘virtues’. More astonishingly, she _lived_ them, as if they were more than words in the mouth of some overstuffed noble.

“Can we really spare the time to investigate this?” Tarlak, the death-sworn Orcish chief who claimed to be related to Callaina, asked as they left Highmoon Hall. “Alduin awaits.”

“This seems to be a bit more than a lone vampire getting herself a protector,” Callaina answered in that warm husky contralto. “The whole thing reeks. A day or so won’t kill anyone… and it will help. Erandur, Lydia, Jenassa and I will handle it if you’d rather die by dragon.”

Jenassa exchanged wry glances with Lydia while Erandur rolled his eyes. To be honest, the Orcs were only useful when there were massive enemies like dwarven Centurions or dragons about, because they were all seeking what they deemed a ‘good death’ as atonement for some past sins. For vampires, usually a subtle enemy, they’d be as obvious as an Imperial marching band with scarlet banners and trumpets.

“And having Idgrod owe Balgruuf a favour like Laila did will be useful,” Jenassa observed.

But much to her surprise, Callaina shook her head. “Balgruuf was married to Idgrod’s sister Svanhild. She’s part of his extended family and will support him anyway, but that gives me an obligation as Balgruuf’s consort to lend a hand if needed.”

“We’ll stay at the pub then,” Tarlak said with a sigh. “I don’t see why Idgrod can’t investigate it herself though.”

“Because it would stir up trouble,” Lydia said softly. “The people of Morthal are already terrified. If Idgrod’s guards start kicking in doors and rooting around in graves, it could provoke them into a riot.”

“Whereas no one will object to a Thane, even from another Hold, asking some questions and taking discreet actions,” Callaina agreed. “I think Alva killed Hroggar’s family… or had him kill them. Laelette might have been dinner or from a previous attempt to use Thonnir as a protector instead. Three deaths in the space of two weeks. That’s… pretty suspect. You and I and probably Idgrod know Alva’s a vampire, but summarily executing the village beauty without proof could turn ugly.”

Jenassa understood people as enemy, useful, useless or yet to be determined. She respected Lydia as a meat-shield and competent warrior, tolerated Erandur and his mealy-mouthed ramblings about Mara because the older mer was good with healing spells and mace, and the Orcs were just dragon-fodder since they desired death so badly. When Uthgerd had been about, she’d been another meat-shield without even Lydia’s sarcastic sense of humour, though Jenassa worked with her without complaint. One didn’t always get to choose one’s partners in an artistic endeavour.

Callaina, of course, was Jenassa’s patron. From overwhelmed clerk to confident noblewoman, the Dragonborn had never treated Jenassa with anything less than courtesy and trust. She wasn’t one of those Nords or Orcs who thought every enemy had to be confronted head-on; in fact, from the womer’s own reading, she seemed to think that attitude ridiculous. She could assess someone’s monetary value in a glance, knew the most convoluted tax laws, had a wide variety of general knowledge and was a good match for the shrewd, diplomatic Balgruuf. Pragmatic, but not ruthless like her mother. Overburdened with morality and ethics, but lived up to them as best she could, and able to acknowledge hypocrisy when she couldn’t. Paid equal shares and a fair wage, assisted as best she could in a fight. But most remarkably, she seemed to understand the complex interplay between people and thread through it as easily as Jenassa could slit a throat.

“So, proof first?” Lydia asked after Tarlak left.

“Erandur, go to the ruins of Hroggar’s house and then the graveyard,” Callaina ordered quietly. “I know the Priests of Mara have some mediumistic ability and I suspect there’s at least one ghost hanging around. When violence happens, ghosts generally appear.”

The older mer blinked once. “I didn’t realise you were familiar with the more esoteric duties of the Benevolence. Most people assume the Priests of Arkay handle ghosts.”

“There was a murder in High Rock that involved tax fraud, so I got dragged into it,” Callaina replied with a sigh. “The Priests of Arkay are generally more concerned about destroying ghosts if they can’t move on, whereas the Priests of Mara worry about making sure they rest in peace.”

Jenassa filed away that bit of information for later use.

Erandur nodded. “Very well. I may need to wait after dark.”

“Then get some blessed salt from Falion and make sure your mace’s enchantments are powered up,” Callaina advised. “It’s entirely possible Alva may pay a visit, if I can’t neutralise her today.”

The cleric nodded and left.

Callaina sighed explosively. “Lydia, can you distract the local guards? Aslfur’s said I have permission to do what I need to, but I’d rather be discreet. I just saw Hroggar leave for work, so Jenassa and I will be able to sneak in and do some investigating.”

The huscarl nodded and approached the iron-armoured Benor to talk – loudly – about a test of skill. Lydia was surprisingly capable of social deception. Jenassa could only assume she inherited it from Balgruuf.

Jenassa followed Callaina to Alva’s house and once the guards were occupied with Lydia and Benor’s brawl, the Dragonborn placed her palm against the door and unlocked it with a gentle tickle of magicka. She opened it carefully, with a minimum of creaking, and once they were inside closed it swiftly.

“You’ve broken into houses before,” Jenassa noted approvingly.

“You’d be surprised how many tax evaders keep their spoils in a locked chest or safe,” Callaina said wryly. “Be ready. I don’t think Alva’s going to be thrilled we’re in her house.”

Alva was laid out in a coffin (honestly, why didn’t vampires just sleep in a bed like a normal person and thus avoid detection) and Callaina used Telekinesis to filch her journal. After swiftly perusing the book, her lips tightened. “Stake her in the heart with your dagger while I burn her,” the Dragonborn ordered tersely. “I was right. This reeks and there’s a Kynareth-damned vampire coven outside waiting to take Morthal over.”

There were more powerful mages than Callaina, but few had as fine control over their magicka as she, and so they were able to execute and cremate Alva without even scorching the wood of the coffin. “Good thing you’ve learned to breathe fire,” Jenassa noted dryly as they left the cottage.

Idgrod read the journal, listened to Callaina’s report, and nodded once in barely suppressed anger. “That treacherous bitch! As for this Morvath, I’ve heard of him. I’ll round up some of my braver guards and-“

“Lydia, Jenassa, Erandur and myself will be able to handle it more readily, Jarl Idgrod. Vampires are fairly small potatoes compared to dragons,” Callaina interrupted calmly. “I’d rather borrow Falion, because I know how effective Priests of Tu’whacca can be against the undead.”

The Jarl nodded slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean. Very well, Dragonborn.”

“I’ll wait until daylight. I’d rather not fight vampires at night,” Callaina said.

“So be it. May the gods guide your blades.”

Erandur joined them at the pub and revealed Alva had turned Laelette, who was now in the hands of Falion to be cured by dawn, and set her to kill Hroggar’s family… but the woman’s mind had cracked and she tried to turn Helgi, the daughter. “We attack at dawn?” he asked grimly.

“Shortly after. I’ll want to question Laelette about the coven.” Callaina sighed. “Morthal’s so isolated that if they’d succeeded, it would have been months before someone realised what was wrong.”

They slept well that night and on awakening, Callaina and Jenassa accompanied Falion to see Laelette cured. Jenassa had to admit the Redguard knew his magic and the knowledge that vampirism could be cured for the low cost of a black soul gem relieved her. Plenty of people whose souls could be turned to a more useful purpose, though she knew she should keep that bit to herself. Even Callaina couldn’t see the ironic amusement of such a fate for some scum bandit.

Laelette told them all she knew and then ran back to her husband. Jenassa rather expected Idgrod would be having a long talk with her and extracting wergild. The Nord law of paying money for various crimes was a useful one.

The investigation took longer than the clearing out of the vampire coven, mostly because Callaina, Erandur, Jenassa and Falion used Fire Breath, Ancestor’s Wrath and Fireball profusely. There was a decent amount of loot in the place, enough vampire dust to make several dozen cure disease potions to replace the one’s they drank, and the satisfaction of proving to so-called ‘immortal beings’ that they were just artistic materials after all.

Idgrod insisted on throwing a feast for them and Callaina promised her daughter, imaginatively named Idgrod the Younger, that she’d carry a message to Danica Pure-Spring in Whiterun because Joric’s magical abilities were overwhelming him. Interestingly, Lydia and Idgrod the Younger knew each other and shared a bed. Well, Jenassa supposed there were worse matches. Uthgerd and Mjoll could go off and be stupidly noble together. Lydia and Idgrod the Younger were quite sensible for Nords.

After the party died down and everyone else went to bed, Callaina took herself out into the night and Jenassa followed – just to make sure there were no lingering vampires who wanted revenge for their friends. The Nord knelt down on the front porch of the pub, undid her hair so it flowed in the breeze, and began to pray in Dragonish to the goddess Kynareth, who she revered. Given that Kynareth supposedly gave Nords the ability to Shout, that only made sense to Jenassa. Callaina was surprisingly sensible at times.

“Does Kynareth ever answer?” Jenassa asked when the prayer was done.

“Not overtly,” Callaina admitted as she stood up and brushed off her dress. “Idgrod gave me some news from Whiterun. My mother went insane and hacked her husband and his consort to death with an ebony katana I _know_ Balgruuf sent to her. Now the armies of several Holds are getting together under his banner to besiege Windhelm.”

There were stories Jenassa remembered from her childhood and an ebony blade that drove its wielder to kill those closest to them was one of them. “He sent the Ebony Blade of Mephala to your mother? That’s rather clever of him. Didn’t she insult you by sending an axe or something?”

“She was trying to force me to declare myself for or against the Stormcloaks… or perhaps her in particular. Jarls usually send each other axes to determine who’s friend or foe.” The Dragonborn sighed. “Irileth said she made the decision, but I know those two. She’d have advised and he made the final call.”

“I suppose this is one of those…” Jenassa chose her words carefully; she didn’t want to insult her patron by using the word ‘ridiculous’ to describe the Nords’ laws about kinslaying when they spent half their time trying to betray each other. “Those kinslaying laws? While I appreciate the irony of Balgruuf gifting Sigdrifa’s own destruction to her as a sign of ‘peace’ when she meant no such thing by her own gift, I imagine as a Nord it must break some kinship rule.”

“She’s been declared nithing, which is to say she has no kin-rights or wergild. Even the lowest churl is worth more than her in the scheme of things.” Callaina smiled ruefully. “I suppose a Morag Tong would think it was pretty funny. It’s the sort of thing a Reclamations Dunmer would do.”

“So if she isn’t kin, she isn’t your mother and Balgruuf is simply disposing of an enemy,” Jenassa pointed out. “I can tell you for a fact that many, many Dunmer prayed to Mephala for the Stormsword’s death during the Three-Winter Famine, as we called it in the Grey Quarter.”

“I can acknowledge the irony and the poetic justice of it,” Callaina admitted with another sigh. “But she is still my mother… and trauma made her as hard and cold as she is. Once, I wanted nothing more than to be a true Nord and make her proud.”

“Callaina, while you have your moments of refreshing common sense, you’re the most Nordy Nord I have ever met. You keep your word, you don’t harm your kin, you pay your debts and you’ve never run from an enemy,” Jenassa assured her. “That _does_ make you a true Nord, right?”

Much to her surprise, Callaina wiped at her eyes. “Thank you, Jenassa. You remind me a lot of my uncle Irkand. He’s a stone-cold assassin in combat but outside of it, he truly is a decent man when he’s allowed to be. I think you’re much the same. Thank you for being my friend.”

Jenassa _wasn’t_ the same but she decided not to correct the Dragonborn. “You’re welcome,” she said instead. “We should go inside. It’s colder than Mephala’s heart out here.”

She’d had several patrons, but she supposed Callaina was her first and only ‘friend’. Not that Jenassa really believed in that word, but she’d use it, because Callaina had elevated herself above more than ‘useful’ and ‘patron’. She’d even execute any offending parties for free. That was ‘friendship’, right?


	36. A Most Unusual Moot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, child abuse, child abandonment, torture, imprisonment, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

In the end, they had to hold the Moot in Jorrvaskr, as nowhere else in Whiterun was neutral enough to please all the Jarls and their representatives. Idgrod the Younger arrived with Callaina and her retinue, carrying her mother’s authority and gratitude for the Dragonborn putting paid to a vampire plot to take over Morthal. Balgruuf greeted his niece with a nod and his consort with a broad smile that faltered slightly when he saw the understanding in her blue-green gaze. Callaina knew, and she most certainly did _not_ approve, but she would say nothing… publicly. He’d better steel himself for an explanation to her.

Elisif had arrived two days ago, accompanied by Tullius and Rikke and the former Companion Ria, while a woman named Brina Merilis claimed to speak for the Pale after Skald’s tragic accident and Korir had bestirred himself to leave Winterhold for this. Egil deputised Jorleif to be his representative as acting Jarl of Windhelm, the Forsworn came with _Bjarni_ and some Reacher lass claiming to be Jarl and Queen of the Reachfolk, Ralof was in charge of Falkreath and Laila sent her Steward Anuriel to support Mjoll the Lioness. It was a most unusual Moot… but then, this had been a most unusual civil war after Helgen.

The Companions had managed to keep most of the unrelated rabble out, but Callaina brought in Delphine of the Blades, an athletic Redguard with fine grey braids and a bladed spear invited himself with a suspiciously stained canvas sack in hand, and Madanach just walked in under Vilkas’ outstretched sword, earning a curse from the tall Companion. Dean Viarmo of the Bards College was here with notebook in hand. Kodlak sat at the head of the table and Balgruuf next to him; everyone else sat around the firepit in no particular order.

“In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, let this Moot begin in harmony and fellowship,” Kodlak said after a vicious bout of coughing. “Let no one raise blade on another else they be declared nithing and outcast.”

Before Balgruuf could speak, Callaina rose to her feet in one easy motion. “I will keep my remarks brief, as I have little time to spare,” the Dragonborn said calmly. “I have an Elder Scroll and will be going to the Throat of the World to learn the Shout that lay Alduin low in the time of the Three Tongues. The civil war ends today. Every Nord who dies bravely in battle feeds Alduin in Sovngarde. I’d appreciate you not making my job more difficult than it is, thank you.”

She sat down as a shocked babble, interspersed with the odd sound of retching, sprung up around the table. Balgruuf himself thought nauseous at the thought of Alduin feasting on the souls of heroes; he’d thought it an exaggeration of the Poetic Edda. But Viarmo, Bjarni and Rikke were nodding in agreement. Most of the Nord Jarls, but Elisif in particular, were ashen-faced. The Companions looked sick and Vilkas was wiping his mouth. Even Kodlak looked perturbed.

“Well, we now know the stakes,” Balgruuf said with a sigh as he stood to address the others. “I presumed to summon you all here because we have a nithing in Windhelm who slew her husband and Jarl and I am the Jarl who has ruled his Hold the longest. I welcome Hjaalmarch, the Reach, Winterhold and the Pale to this Moot, and thank the Rift, Eastmarch and Falkreath for their willingness to answer my call for soldiers.”

“Even those of us who call ourselves Stormcloaks don’t want Sigdrifa anywhere near a Jarl’s throne, let alone one that she gained through betrayal of her Jarl,” Ralof said bluntly. “I don’t think there’s a person in Tamriel who is more hated at the moment.”

The Redguard laughed. “Titus Mede _was_ … but he’s dining in the Void now.”

“So you admit to murdering the Emperor?” Tullius growled.

“I did. By the way, the Moot truce applies, so you can’t arrest me here or in Whiterun,” the Redguard answered cheerfully. “And since I’m not likely to come to Haafingar, you can kiss any chance you’ll have goodbye.”

He emptied the sack to reveal a dark-haired Breton’s head, the eyes still gaping in shock. “I have proof that Armand Motierre hired the Dark Brotherhood to execute Vittoria Vicci, Gaius Maro the Elder and Titus Mede. Gaius Junior was on the list but he got delayed in Bruma because of an avalanche from a dragon attack on the Pale Pass. Akaviria was spared because he had frankly disgusting plans for her.”

Callaina just buried her face in her palm with a groan.

“You thinking someone’s disgusting has to be one for the ages, Rustem Aurelius,” observed Ria, her cheeks pale but her eyes bright with anger. “If you ever return to Cyrodiil, I’ll pike your head on a wall.”

“Thankfully, there are far better places than Cyrodiil to be,” Rustem answered gaily.

“So there’s no High King, no Emperor and apparently no clue,” Madanach said dryly.

“Oh, we’ve decided on the High King,” Elisif told him candidly. “We’re giving the job to Balgruuf.”

Balgruuf blinked. He… well, he hadn’t _planned_ on becoming High King, but since no one else seemed to be capable of gathering the other Jarls…

Madanach smiled beatifically. “The Reach has no problem with that.”

“I thought Bjarni Ulfricsson was in charge,” Ria said pointedly.

“I listen to my grandmother’s cousin’s advice,” Bjarni rumbled. “Balgruuf’s the only Jarl who’s put the dragons above the civil war… and let’s be honest, he’s married to the Dragonborn.”

“I will _not_ use the Thu’um for political gain,” Callaina said softly. “Not even for Balgruuf. Lend my assistance as Thane of Whiterun, yes. But not the Thu’um itself. Last time someone did that, we got Talos… and the Thalmor.”

Rikke sighed. “I think part of the Empire’s problem is that it’s always been based in Cyrodiil, which has disconnected it from the provinces. In Skyrim tradition, the city of the Jarl who’s elected High King becomes the administrative centre. I think, if we are to try and keep the Empire intact, we need to follow that path. By right of wisdom and marriage to one of Septim ancestry, I put forth Balgruuf as an Imperial candidate, and let Whiterun become the heart of a new Empire that remembers its Nord roots.”

In the background, a stocky Redguard began to laugh long and low, breaking the stunned silence which descended after Rikke’s words.

Callaina collected herself admirably, giving Balgruuf a helpless glance. “And people have forgotten that you’re a Shieldmaiden of Talos,” she said after a long deep breath.

Ria stared at Rikke. “You swore-“

“-That I would uphold your right to the Ruby Throne,” Rikke finished gently. “And I have, Akaviria. But the Nords won’t follow you, even if you did become a Companion. Callaina’s got the blood and Balgruuf’s got the brains. Are you so attached to the idea of being Empress that you will throw away an entire province? There are worse titles than being Queen of Cyrodiil.”

The storm finally broke and Balgruuf let them talk it out before speaking. This changed everything. It changed the world itself.


	37. Dreki Bani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, child abandonment, child abuse, religious conflict and war crimes.

Callaina ran a hand over her face as Balgruuf closed the door to their bedroom. None of this, absolutely none of this, had been on her agenda. But if she didn’t go through with it, a lot of people would suffer in the short to medium term. So what choice did she have?

“I won’t apologise for sending the Ebony Blade of Mephala to your mother,” Balgruuf said once the door was shut. “She attempted to force you into a fight you weren’t ready for because of her need to control everything. That made her an enemy of Whiterun… and of me. The Stormsword would not have permitted the existence of a power she couldn’t command or control.”

She inhaled shudderingly. “You set her up to become a murderer!”

“Mephala can only work with what was already there,” Balgruuf said softly. “She probably had plans to kill Ulfric and Galmar anyway. For what it’s worth, Nelkir’s become a lot less secretive and sly since I sent that damned thing to Windhelm.”

“Was this…?” she gestured in Jorrvaskr’s general direction. “Was this the plan all along?”

“No!” His answer was emphatic. “I’d planned to become kingmaker, I’ll not deny it… but to become High King _and_ Emperor? No. That hadn’t been my plan.”

Balgruuf took a step closer, his gaze earnest. “I’ll admit that when I first met you, before we all knew you were Dragonborn, your dynastic ties were part of my consideration. That you were attractive, intelligent, competent and kind was a bonus. A Jarl must consider the good of his Hold when he makes these kinds of decisions.”

Callaina burst into tears. “I never wanted any of this!”

He embraced her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Neither did I. I’d hoped to have a quiet, prosperous life spoiling you and rebuilding my relationship with my children. But you are Dragonborn and I am a Jarl. We don’t have the luxury of a quiet life.”

She wept all the harder and he held her. It was all they could do.

…

“Thank you for coming.”

Callaina had come a long way from the uncertain, flinching bureaucrat who’d helped him in Bleak Falls Barrow, Faendal mused as he studied the Dragonborn. Wearing a set of mage robes with powerful enchantments under a saffron mantle pinned with a golden brooch shaped as Whiterun’s rearing horse and a jade-and-sapphire circlet, she stood at the head of a table on the Jarl’s own porch. Most folks had been startled by her meteoric rise to power, but he wasn’t. Balgruuf would make a great Emperor and with the power of Callaina behind him, only the Dominion would dare challenge them… and Faendal rather thought the Thalmor were screwed.

Uthgerd, Lydia, Jenassa, Delphine, a blue-eyed Redguard mercenary named Rustem, a Companions whelp named Irkand, Vilkas the Hero-Twin, a battlemage named Marcurio, some random Nord named Benor, an Orc named Tarlak and Faendal himself were seated at the table. Rustem and Irkand looked a lot like Callaina and spent most of the time glaring at each other or at Delphine. There were a lot of undercurrents here. Hopefully they wouldn’t kill each other.

“Some of you are kin, others friends and allies and even the odd mercenary who I’ve hired in the past,” Callaina continued. “I have an Elder Scroll and I am going to High Hrothgar to read it and learn the Shout that defeated Alduin. By oaths they swore long ago, Rustem, Irkand and Delphine are called to attend as Blades by the Last Dragonborn. The rest of you have the choice to join me in the final fight for the world. I won’t think less of you if you decline. This is a situation as dire as the Oblivion Crisis and I will need people who are willing to die, if needed, to buy me time to destroy Alduin.”

Vilkas stirred. “I am a Nord and a Companion of Jorrvaskr. Let it not be said the heirs of Ysgramor stinted their aid during the end of days, if these should be them. Let Alduin taste the last best worth of the Nords and find it bitter. My brother and I will come.”

“Thank you,” Callaina said with a slight smile. “Try not to stab my uncle. Part of his training included the ability to assassinate dragons.”

“Hmmph,” was all Vilkas said.

“Since Balgruuf won’t let me be part of the operation to bring Sigdrifa down, I might as well kick Alduin’s arse,” Rustem said lazily. “I had some of that training too, daughter mine. Besides, I want to see my baby girl breathe fire. I’m so proud of you.”

“You should be glad I’m a Nord, because you’re both flammable and within Shouting distance,” Callaina answered softly. “I understand you are what you are, but there are things that can’t be forgiven. Let your penance be the death of Alduin.”

“I did my best,” Rustem began, only to be cut off by laughter from Delphine and Irkand.

“If I can be frank, everyone at Cloud Ruler Temple was a shit human being,” Callaina said testily. “Delphine dumped Uncle Irkand for you and cheated with her on the Stormsword, which partially led to the current mess. Grandfather was insane, the Blades didn’t have the sense to scatter, and I wound up holding the bag at _eight years old._ All of you escaped the consequences. I didn’t. So kill Alduin and do something useful for a change.”

“This is better than a High Rock romantic tragedy,” Marcurio snickered.

“These are my descendants and apart from Callaina I’m disappointed in the lot of them,” Tarlak drawled sardonically.

Callaina sighed. “So I have Tarlak, Irkand, the Hero-Twins, Delphine and Rustem. Anyone else?”

“Forgive me, Callaina, but I’m going to beg out,” Marcurio said. “Ordinary dragon, sure. End of world dragon? I don’t like my chances.”

“I’m coming. I’m your huscarl,” Lydia said firmly.

“As will I,” Uthgerd promised.

Faendal coughed awkwardly. “Callaina, I’m sorry…”

“I understand. I heard about Camilla’s pregnancy. Congratulations,” Callaina finished.

Benor blew out a breath. “Not sure what else I’ll be, but I’ll come. You saved Morthal, Dragonborn.”

“Then it’s decided. Nine will accompany me to High Hrothgar.” Callaina inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Let them all be known as Dreki Bani – Dragon’s Bane. We will show Alduin that humanity just won’t roll over and die at his whim.”

“Dreki Bani!” Benor bellowed and soon enough, everyone – even Faendal – was calling out the name.

But Callaina looked more sad than triumphant and Faendal couldn’t figure out why.


	38. The Justice of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, war crimes and religious conflict. Egil’s turn for the wringer… but also a chance to shine.

“Stendarr’s balls!” bellowed the hard-faced Redguard whose quilted leather armour was sturdier than what most guards were issued. “What’s happened to those guards?”

Leif the Lonely, Egil’s second, blanched. “They’re dead. By the gods, she’s turned Windhelm’s guards into draugr!”

Erandur, newly returned from Whiterun with the news the new High King (and Emperor!) was on his way, shuddered. “The ones in the fancy armour are liches. I’m certain of it.”

“An undead army with its own unholy officers,” remarked a lithe young Redguard whose profile was hauntingly familiar. “Lu’ah al-Skaven has served her patroness well.”

“Lu’ah al- _fucking_ -Skaven? Well, this just gets better and better,” grated Isran of the Dawnguard.

“We need to know what happened to the civilians,” Egil said, shaken. “How could she have gone so mad, so swiftly?”

“The Ebony Blade of Mephala,” Erandur said grimly. “Irileth, who’s the Nerevarine and demi-prince daughter of Azura, got the idea of weaponising the Daedric artefact after the Webspinner tried to corrupt young Nelkir. I’d say, given the Stormsword’s from the Kreathling line and they’re prone to paranoia – and a few prayers from the more fervent worshippers of the Reclamations in the Grey Quarter – Mephala decided to take a more direct hand in the situation.”

“From what Bjarni’s said about his Dunmer friends, it’s certainly something they’d do, and Balgruuf wouldn’t be above returning Sigdrifa’s ‘fuck you’ with interest,” Leif agreed grimly. “And this man’s the High King Emperor or whatever. Gods help us.”

“Our crossbows can bring the liches down if the priests will bless the fire salts we use to make the explosive bolts,” offered Sorine Jurard, the Dawnguard’s resident mechanist.

“They will,” Egil promised. If this was part of Balgruuf’s plan…

…The man might be the kind of Emperor the world needed, if not the kind Egil would wish.

“If it’s any consolation, judging by Balgruuf’s expression the next morning, your sister gave him the sharp side of her tongue,” Erandur said softly, for Egil’s ears alone. “Whether he came up with the idea or not, Callaina made her displeasure clear. She’s a remarkably honourable woman, even by Nord standards.”

Egil nodded tightly. “I know. I’m glad she can temper his… we shall call it pragmatism.”

He was blessing the salts when two Argonians, accompanied by Avulstein Grey-Mane, arrived in the camp. “Sigdrifa’s nuttier than my mother’s fruitcake,” his cousin said tersely. “Thankfully, we managed to get most of the civilians out when we realised just how batshit she was.”

“The Shatter-Shields and a few other Nords are dead,” the male Argonian said with a shrug. “Brunwulf Free-Winter’s got the survivors holed up at Refugee’s Rest and in the farms. Turns out the Stormsword’s got a couple pet necromancers.”

“Calixto Corrium was the Butcher and she let him go up to Yngvild to raise the Shieldmaidens there,” Avulstein reported grimly. “Lu’ah al-Skaven seems to specialise in mass draugr-raising.”

“She’s mine,” the young Redguard said. “I travelled all the way from Hammerfell to kill her.”

“If it’s viable, you can have her,” Egil promised the youth. He was about four or five years younger than Egil but there was the calm competence of a master swordsman in his movements. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir,” was his answer. “Somewhere, the Daedric Princes are laughing at the thought of the Stormsword’s son and Rustem’s son working together.”

“Callaina’s got brothers popping out everywhere,” Avulstein said amusedly. “How does it feel to know your sister’s the Last Dragonborn and the next Empress?”

“I’m impressed about the Dragonborn business, but if she thinks she has authority in Hammerfell, she’ll be educated otherwise,” Cirroc said softly. “Hammerfell will never return to the Empire, not after we were betrayed.”

Egil nodded in agreement. “I wasn’t expecting Rikke and Tullius to offer Balgruuf the crown when I asked for his help.”

When the explosive bolts were made and blessed, the Dawnguard’s crossbowmen cranked their weapons, aimed and fired. The undead clustered along Windhelm’s walls exploded into a shower of gore and black magic, drawing grotesque curses from the few ‘survivors’ among the liches. “Get rid of those unholy creatures,” Egil ordered grimly. “I want the walls free of them.”

“They’ll just raise more corpses,” Avulstein observed. “We don’t have the soldiers to take the walls.”

Erandur gestured, fireballs streaking from both hands to take out two undead Shieldmaidens. “There’s a lot of dead in Windhelm’s catacombs. No wonder Sigdrifa can hold the city against us.”

“She did make one mistake though, in killing or driving out the living,” Isran said grimly. “We needn’t hold back.”

For the next few hours, the undead on the walls were struck down by bolt or by spell, only to be replaced with even more rotting corpses and what looked like every draugr from Eastmarch. As night fell, Egil gave the order to throw earth-tar on the bridge and water and set it alight so that the undead couldn’t be used in an ambush.

The next morning, he awoke to the ultimate horror: the undead on the walls were now commanded by the clumsily stitched-together corpses of Ulfric, Galmar and Wuunferth. “By the Nine,” Leif breathed, sickened. “Is there no end?”

Egil licked his lips. “How soon can someone get to Stendarr’s Beacon? We need every Vigilant in Skyrim here. This can’t go on.”

“I sent word just before I left the Rift,” Isran said. “But you know Tolan. He’d sooner go skinny-dipping in Stros M’kai ghost reaper juice than come give the Dawnguard a hand.”

“I thought that was Irkand,” drawled Gunmar, the big red-haired Reacher beast-tamer.

“Irkand’s gone off and become a Companion these days. Can’t imagine why,” Isran observed.

“He’s tall, dark, handsome, a bit of a prick and probably five times more pleasant than you are,” Erandur told him dryly. “His name is Vilkas.”

“Vilkas is a complete arsehole!” Avulstein blurted.

“Steady,” Leif murmured as Egil opened his mouth to demand them to stop joking when his father was raised as a draugr on the very walls of the city he ruled. “They’re as horrified as you. But many men try to hide their fear in humour. Getting angry with it’s like getting angry with water being wet.”

Egil closed his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes. “Give my father and his court officers peace, Isran.”

But no matter how they aimed the bolts or fireballs, Wuunferth’s magic or Ulfric’s ebony-alloy armour deflected them.

“Motherless daughter of a draugr!” Erandur cursed. “How are we going to destroy them?”

Cirroc pursed his lips. “Egil, do you care how they’re laid to rest? I know there’s some bad blood between your family and mine.”

Egil shook his head. “Send them to Sovngarde.”

“Then send the armoured trolls across the bridge,” he said quietly. “I want the liches’ eyes on the beasties and not what might be flying towards them.”

“You can shapeshift?” Avulstein asked in disbelief.

“No. I have a sacred sword that carries the soul of a Redguard Prince who died fighting Tiber Septim and can wield itself in combat,” was the young Redguard’s answer. “He’d take great pleasure in killing a trio of die-hard Talosites.”

Egil closed his eyes. “Do it.”

Gunmar unleashed the trolls and Cirroc his magical sword. Egil supposed the soul in the sword refused to be unleashed on common draugr. He didn’t dare ask as its keen sword parted heads from bodies, turning all to ash, and then swooped back to Cirroc’s waiting hand.

Wiping his eyes, Egil watched the undead mill around uselessly before indulging himself in a pungent curse he’d learned from Bjarni in more innocent times. “There’s too many!”

“If we can kill the necromancers, it’ll destroy the whole damned army,” Isran said grimly. “I wish Irkand was here. He’d be over those walls and back with their heads already.”

Avulstein exchanged glances with the Argonians. “There’s a way into the city through the sewers,” he said. “If we dose ourselves with poison and disease cures…”

“I will show you,” said the female Argonian. “I lost an egg-sister to the Stormsword when she wanted to make a Black Sacrament.”

_Justice doesn’t just belong to the mighty,_ Keeper Carcette had once told him. _Even the lowest have their own sense of it._

“We’ll do it,” Egil agreed grimly. “We can’t beat them… but we can’t wait for the High King to arrive either.”

In the end, it was Sorine Jurard, Erandur, Avulstein, Cirroc and Egil himself who accompanied Shahvee and Scouts-Many-Marshes, both of whom had been Bjarni’s friends in better days. The sewer route led to the Bloodworks, in which several of Windhelm’s notables and higher-ranking guards were imprisoned, a few to each cramped cell. Torsten and Hillevi Cruel-Sea (their son had been over at the farm with his Dunmer nurse), Silfnar Ironkettle, some redhead in fine leathers and even a few Dunmer. “Stay here,” Egil ordered hoarsely.

“Pfft. Open the doors and I’ll show them the route out, lad,” the redhead said. “I’m guessing you’re here to finally throw that bitch into the sea where she belongs?”

“Yes,” Egil said flatly.

Avulstein opened the cell doors and the redhead told Torsten a route out of the prison. Egil would have to fix it when the Palace was his once again.

“You’re not going with them?” Erandur asked the redhead.

He shook his head. “Sigdrifa killed my family. I want to see her dead.”

_Even Thieves have a sense of justice,_ Carcette’s voice whispered in Egil’s memory.

After drinking their disease and poison cures, they left the Bloodworks, Egil and Erandur using their Restoration spells to kill every undead guard they came across. The Great Hall was cold and abandoned, bloodstains and scorch marks still marring the walls and floors. Egil shuddered and turned towards the war-room.

“-The situation is one of suspension,” observed a woman’s voice, Hammerfell-accented, from the war-room. “We can’t break out but they can’t get in.”

Cirroc’s smile was grim as he held out his hand, a misty shape gathering between his curled fingers in the form of a sword. “She’s mine,” he mouthed.

“We’re running out of intelligent dead to use as liches though,” Calixto Corrium said wearily. “Sigdrifa, you sending your son to the Vigilants wasn’t one of your best decisions. The boy knows enough to counter what we throw at him.”

“Pity we couldn’t raise that damned dragon,” Sigdrifa answered with a sigh. “Egil will serve me as a draugr-officer. Only the dead can be trusted.”

The red-haired Thief held up his finger as Egil went for his mace. “That’s a fine thing to be saying to the man who’s raised your armies,” he said in Calixto Corrium’s voice. “Are you planning on betraying us then, even after our great and loyal service?”

“How did you-?” Sigdrifa said hoarsely. There was a scuffle and the sound of sorcery in the war-room, followed by screams.

Cirroc, fleet as a shadow fleeing sunrise, was the first into the war-room and Egil was on his heels just in time to see him cut down an older Redguard woman whose hands crackled with lightning. Calixto’s smoking corpse was slumped over the map-table, Sigdrifa’s new ebony katana – roiling with Daedric energy – stuck in it. Before she could pull it free, Egil smashed her hand from the unholy weapon with his blessed mace.

“Damn you!” he roared. “Damn you!”

When he went to strike her down, Avulstein grabbed his arm. “It’s the sea-death for her,” he said grimly. “She doesn’t deserve a clean death.”

Sigdrifa cast Lightning Cloak, trying to break past him, but the red-haired Thief punched her in the face with the magic causing him little harm. “Da was a Reachman,” he growled. “Now let’s hamstring her and feed her to the fishes.”

Egil pulled his arm from Avulstein’s grip. “Remove her armour first. It was worn by the blessed Shieldmaiden Sidgara once.”

“TALOS TOLD ME TO DO IT!” Sigdrifa wailed as her armour was forcibly removed.

“No, Mephala did,” Erandur answered grimly. “You decided to piss off the man who’s getting married to the Dragonborn and has the Nerevarine as his closest adviser, so he sent you the Ebony Blade as a gift. May Mara have mercy on your soul because I assure you, the Emperor Balgruuf does not.”

Those words dealt a more crushing blow to Sigdrifa than anything an executioner could have… and Egil turned away from the look of utter horror and despair in his mother’s eyes. She had broken every vow she’d ever made, tried to control the outcome of everything, and in the end she was broken by deception and the man who’d achieved everything she’d ever wanted. When they hamstrung her, tied rocks to her wrists and ankles, and threw her from the walls of Windhelm to drown in the sea, she didn’t even scream.

When it was done, Egil sat down in the Throne of Ysgramor and broke into heart-rending sobbing. His mother was dead and his family broken. And because it was just, he’d had to let it happen.


	39. Alduin's Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of biphobia.

“So this is Paarthurnax,” Delphine said. “Looks pretty good for a war criminal.”

“So do you,” Callaina said with the acidic precision she used whenever speaking of Cloud Ruler Temple. The Dragonborn definitely had opinions and now her tongue was freed by the Thu’um and her new rank, she wasn’t shy about sharing them.

Behind her, Irkand laughed briefly, as if his hands were clean as the snow that blanketed the Throat of the World.

“You have it. The Kel - the Elder Scroll. Tood kreh... qalos. Time shudders at its touch. There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. Go then. Fulfil your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs,” rumbled the ancient grey dragon.

Callaina nodded tightly. “You heard him. Spread out, Dreki Bani! Looks like it’s showtime!”

They obeyed and Delphine found herself next to Rustem and across from Irkand. Just like old times.

“You’re taking orders well,” her former lover noted as Callaina walked over to a subtle distortion of air and energy in the middle, the golden Scroll in her hands.

“I always kept my vows,” Delphine answered. “After this… I have the feeling Callaina won’t be interested in rebuilding the Blades.”

“Honestly, we’re better off without them,” Rustem said. “You could come work for the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid’s irritating me and we could use a competent Speaker.”

“My soul isn’t much but it’s mine. I want to go to Heaven’s Reach Temple.” Delphine looked across the snow at Irkand and Vilkas. “I didn’t know Irkand was into men.”

“Dear old Dad exiled his first boyfriend Tyr,” Rustem told her. “I heard Irkand fed him into some evil soul orb during the Battle of the Red Ring later on.”

“He’s more fucked up than the pair of us put together,” Delphine said grimly.

“Amen, sister.”

Callaina opened the Elder Scroll and looked into its arcane depths without flinching. Delphine looked to the sky and most of Dreki Bani followed her lead. So when the clouds parted to reveal the black horror that was Alduin, none of them were taken by surprise.

“Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin. Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde!” the ancient black dragon roared with a certain amount of smugness.

“Lost funt. You are too late, Alduin!” retorted Paarthurnax as he took to the air.

“Suleyki mulaag, Paarthurnax. My power has waxed, while yours has waned. Aav uv dir. Join me or perish with your mortal friends,” Alduin retorted.

“Unslaad hokoron! Never again!” Paarthurnax said defiantly, trying to swoop down on him.

“JOOR ZAH FRUUL!” The Words left Callaina’s mouth in a tone that spoke of endings and mortality, the cycle of life and death that renewed the world, each Word a mighty wind. They struck Alduin in a burst of blue-green, forcing him to the ground.

“You wield the ancient weapon of my enemies, Dovahkiin, but you are not their match,” the World-Eater said scornfully.

“Alduin, for once in your fucking life, _shut up_ ,” Rustem snarled as he parried a snap of those razor-sharp fangs with his dragonbone naginata.

The dragon chuckled grimly and took a deep breath. “YO-“

Rustem performed the naginata form Heron Stabbing Frog with Beak, shoving his naginata down the World-Eater’s throat and then slicing his tongue into two pieces. Alduin gurgled blood as his Shout was turned into a cry of agony.

The other two-handed fighters had concentrated on Alduin’s flanks while Callaina lifted boulders and dropped them on his wings. Irkand, always agile, had dropped under the belly and was using his wazikashis to saw through the knee-tendons by sliding them under the overlapping scales. Delphine realised in a flash of insight the unique shape of Akaviri weapons was designed to overcome each of the dragon’s strengths.

Lydia stood guard on the Dragonborn while Jenassa used a bow, aiming for the World-Eater’s eyes. When Alduin clumsily took to the air, Callaina just Shouted him down again. The battle wasn’t going too well for him.

“Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!” Alduin cried out.

“You are neither eternal nor unable to be killed,” Paarthurnax rumbled grimly. “Die now and await your fate on the Wheel.”

Alduin desperately took flight one last time, but Paarthurnax struck, stooping from on high to break his back with an ugly crack. After that, it was really a matter of simple butchery. Unsurprisingly, it was Irkand who put him out his misery by slicing his jugular.

When the welter of blood and gore was done, Vilkas decapitating the World-Eater to make sure, Delphine realised Benor had died. One death against Alduin? Fair trade.

Tarlak, the death-sworn Orc, swore vociferously. “I was supposed to have a glorious death, dammit! But that bloody Nord stole it from me!”

“If you really want to die, I could arrange it,” Rustem suggested.

The Orc shook his head. “No. I won’t have kin slay me. Thanks for the offer though.”

Callaina fell to her knees in utter exhaustion as the flesh and bone of Alduin burned away. Then she fell to the side, eyes closed and face pale.

“NO!” Rustem and Irkand yelled in unison as they ran to her side.


	40. Epilogue: The Silent Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment, religious conflict, war crimes and genocide. Sometimes happy endings aren't what you think they might be.

“Callaina Broken-Blade, the Last Aurelii, Septim and Dragonborn, Empress-Consort of the Emperor Balgruuf, died of wounds and exhaustion sustained during the battle with Alduin World-Eater at the Throat of the World, which all of Skyrim saw,” reported Lydia with the flat toneless delivery of one grieved beyond all measure. “The Greybeards will barrow her at Ustengrav with their own.”

“She should be barrowed in Whiterun’s Hall of the Dead!” snapped Hrongar, Balgruuf’s brother.

“It was her wish,” growled Tarlak the Orc.

“At the very least she should receive a plaque on the walls of the Palace of the Kings,” Brunwulf Free-Winter, the new Jarl of Windhelm, said with a mournful sigh.

“Then put this on it: ‘Wind over Jeralls, blade flashed once in the sunlight, the hawk flew away’,” Irkand said softly. “It was her death poem in the Akaviri style.”

Balgruuf buried his face in his hands briefly, then raised it to reveal a clear and terrible grief in his blue eyes. “You are certain she is dead?”

“I wrapped my niece in her funeral shroud myself,” Irkand retorted with his typical bluntness. “She is…. She was… the last of us. Cirroc won’t use the name and with the death of the Last Dragonborn, the Blades’ oaths have been fulfilled, and we few remaining will go our separate ways.”

The new Emperor nodded heavily. “So be it. But why did she not wish to be barrowed in Whiterun?”

“Because she wanted to rest in peace,” Irkand told him. “She didn’t want her tomb to become a place of pilgrimage. Callaina was _tired_ , Balgruuf. Too much was asked of her and in the end, once the danger was past, she succumbed to everything. Hearing about her mother’s end…”

He trailed off and wiped tears from his eyes. “Callaina only ever wanted to outlive her mother and Titus Mede. For a long time, that was her only goal. She achieved it and she saved the world and like Martin Septim, she guttered out like a candle when her task was done.”

“Was I not enough?” Balgruuf asked.

“We should have taken Erandur with us,” Lydia admitted heavily. “Callaina didn’t want to die but when she realised that she’d bleed out and the Greybeards knew no healing spells, she turned her mind to settling her affairs as best she could. She released me from my huscarl’s oath and told me to deliver messages to those she loved.”

The former huscarl handed out various letters to Balgruuf, Bjarni, Egil, Rikke and Faendal. “With your leave, uncle, I will be going to Morthal to help Idgrod the Younger manage things as Jarl now her mother’s retiring to Hag’s End.”

“You may go,” Balgruuf agreed, wiping at his eyes. “I would surrender the Jagged Crown if I thought it would bring her back.”

“I know,” Irkand said softly. “But it’s out of our hands now.”

After that, the post-war Moot gathered in the Palace of the Kings turned to other matters, including rumours of a vampire uprising in Haafingar, diplomatic overtures to Hammerfell and Morrowind, and the myriad of issues stemming from the disastrous civil war. Balgruuf handed the vampire problem to Egil, the newly named Knight-Commander of the Vigilance of Stendarr’s military branch, the mop-up of remnant Stormsword militia to Lord-General Madanach, and various other debacles to the appropriately talented subordinates. Balgruuf was a great delegator, a useful virtue for an Emperor to have.

“No.” Cirroc’s tone was firm in response to Akaviria’s offer of a marriage alliance. “I am a Sword-Saint of Hammerfell and my allegiance is to the gods of Yokuda. My Septim ancestry is an unfortunate side note in my family history.”

Rikke sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. Of all the things she considered in her plans, the fact that Callaina would up and die on her was the one possibility that never even entered her mind. Balgruuf’s claim to the Emperor’s Throne was now a lot more tenuous, but he had the competence and skill to hold it, and once the mourning period for Callaina was done…

He was still, after all, dragon-blooded of the line of Wulfharth. Talos’ own bloodline would have been better, of course, but the Wulfharth blood had enough power to cover most metaphysical contingencies. Dagny and Frothar weren’t the little monsters they once were and even the bastard Nelkir could form a useful alliance in the future.

The new General of Skyrim’s Legions allowed herself another sigh. Her work was never done.

…

“You played the truth like a fiddle in there,” Vilkas growled as Irkand entered his bedroom in Jorrvaskr.

“None of it was a lie,” Irkand retorted as he hung his wazikashis from a rack. “We all agreed to it.”

“Of course we did.” Vilkas pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a nasty little dig you threw in at Balgruuf, by the way.”

“Accurate, though. I’m sure he cared for Callaina, but I’m personally of the mind at least half of it was the political advantages she brought. Zenitharans tend to think along those lines… and he certainly made use of Callaina being Dragonborn.” Irkand began to unlace his armour. “Let him understand his ploys may cost lives, including those he loves. It will make him a better Emperor in the long run.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You might have learned something about honour after all,” Vilkas said dryly.

“If I can learn honour, maybe you can learn to be a little less of an arsehole,” Irkand retorted mildly.

“Kiss him and he won’t be!” Farkas advised from the other room across the hall.

Given that everyone agreed Farkas was the most emotionally intelligent of the Companions, Irkand obeyed, and was surprised that yes, Vilkas could be a bit less of an arsehole… even if it was only temporary. He laid down the burdens of a lifetime, now that all his oaths were fulfilled. The hawk flew away indeed.

…

The caravan to Elinhir consisted of a few wagons and several horses, the remnants of an Alik’r squad commanded by a Sword-Saint who’d fulfilled his oaths, a Redguard couple and their daughter wanting to get back to their roots in Hammerfell, the notorious Rustem ibn Setareh al-Elinhir, and a handsome woman of indeterminate race but obviously Yokudan ancestry who was explained to be mute. The caravan master thought nothing of it, not when she wore plain garments of good quality and paid for her passage in pure gold and silver ore. If the Sword-Saint and the Son of Satakal were solicitous of her, well, the gods thought kindly of and gave blessings to those who treated the unfortunate with grace and mercy.

As Skyrim fell behind them, a hawk cried out and flew away. Tava’s blessings were on the caravan, so the master settled himself and turned his mind to the journey ahead. Even these renegade Stormswords who claimed Sigdrifa was sent mad by the evil magics of the new Emperor wouldn’t attack a caravan with ten guards, all of whom were hardened veterans commanded by the Sword-Saint who executed the infamous traitor Iman al-Suda and the necromancer Lu’ah al-Skaven, and numbered the man who piled a thousand Altmer heads in a cairn that still stood outside of Elinhir and crucified an Emperor’s cousin among them. For that, the caravan master had given them the gift of passage. It was always wise to be generous to the servants of the gods.

But, as they camped in one of the shelters set up by Lady Safiya to accommodate honest traders, he approached the trio as they shared a fire. “Forgive my presumption, my lords and lady,” he said respectfully. “I need the lady’s name – for the records, you understand.”

“Ukimya,” supplied Lord Cirroc. “She gave her voice to Kyne, which is what the Nords call Tava, and may only speak in true need.”

“Of course, of course!” The caravan master dry-washed his hands and bowed repeatedly. Even he’d heard of the priests on the mountain in the middle of Skyrim who could shatter stone with their speech. He’d heard the thunder of their voices when they called ‘Dovahkiin’, who one Nord explained was what they named ‘Dragonborn’ like Tiber Septim and several other of their great heroes, and even seen the final battle between the ‘World-Eater’ and Dovahkiin on the mountain. She’d been a Septim, Nords said, the last descendant of their great god Talos. Poor woman died of her wounds, they said. She was supposed to have been the next Empress.

Well, while the caravan master would say a prayer for Dovahkiin as was proper, he was rather relieved that there were no more Septims. Hammerfell had prospered outside of the Empire and while the few dragons that ventured outside of Skyrim were swiftly killed and never returned, the Nords said they’d come back to life soon enough unless Dovahkiin ate their souls. Skyrim could keep its Empire and its dragons, thank you very much.

So he bowed one final time and scurried back to his fire. Winter lay heavy on this part of Hammerfell and he wanted to get back to Stros M’kai where it was nice and warm. Maybe he’d go up into the Reach next time around… Endon ibn Khema always made the finest silverwork and it sold well in Sentinel…

As was proper, he put the business of the holy folk in his caravan from his mind and tended to his own concerns.


	41. Author's Notes

In traditional fantasy, the hero wins the crown and the day, becoming famous and glorious. Your Aragorns and your Belgarions and your Selenays. But sometimes, you get someone like Rand al'Thor, who won the crown(s) and was exhausted by it, so his reward was to fake his death and take up travelling.

Callaina Broken-Blade, to be honest, is more like Rand al'Thor than Aragorn. The divine ancestry and royal bloodline and chosen one of the prophecy did nothing but make her life even worse, the manipulations of others - even those who cared for her and had the best of intentions - took what little she had left. Heroes are often designated (Protagonist-centred Morality, the trope is called) and I mean, sending Sigdrifa the Ebony Blade was a piece of poetic justice. But it caused a lot of wrong in the long run, and I could not stay true to the characters of Callaina and Egil if I let them forgive Balgruuf for it. Balgruuf got Aragorn's reward because it was the natural conclusion of his arc. He'll make a fantastic Emperor. Egil became a Vigilant, which suits him just fine. Bjarni's become a Jarl and is reconnecting with his mother's indigenous culture, so he got a pretty decent reward too. Irkand gets to retire with the man he cares for and live a life of honour in Jorrvaskr. Rikke's plans succeeded but not entirely - just like real life.

In the end, Callaina got what she wanted - anonymity and a life outside the legacy of her mother and grandfather, with a chance to reconnect to her family and live a quiet life.

Sometimes a happy ending isn't the one that makes sense in traditional fantasy - and I'm good with that.


End file.
